


Uncertainty Principle

by jibrailis



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Divorce, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-03 00:30:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 81,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8689564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jibrailis/pseuds/jibrailis
Summary: He didn’t expect this: Australia, the vineyard, and Niall who won’t look him in the eye.





	1. The Time Thing

**Author's Note:**

> I started working on this fic in August, before anybody released any solo music, and while I've tried to keep it accurate-ish to new events, I feel like tonally it's become something of a canon au? this started as a "what if" hiatus story.
> 
> /hustles this fic out of the WIP folder, pushes it over the ledge. fly free, child.  
>   
>   
>   
> 

  
  
  


_The reason for this is the uncertainty principle. Unless something is forbidden, quantum effects and fluctuations will eventually make it possible if we wait long enough._ — Michio Kaku

  
  
  
  
  


Liam’s getting married, ding dong ding dong, and they may not be as close these days as they once were, but there’s no chance Harry won’t go to his wedding. If he thinks of his life as a series of photographs, here he is dozing on the flight to Saint Maarten, gel sleeping mask slapped on, his mouth open and no doubt drooling onto his chin, stuccoed with stubble he hasn’t bothered shaving for four days.

Here he is again: launching awake when the plane hits the runway, elbows flying everywhere in surprise, smacking his armrest and bruising. 

Here he is: blinking at the yolky Caribbean light, trying to get his bearings straight, trying to remember who was supposed to pick him up and drive him to the resort Liam and Perrie have booked for their do — and god, the idea that Liam is marrying _Perrie_ after all these years; he doesn’t know whether to be amused or exasperated, Liam’s basically a character in a romcom.

Here he is: passed out in the backseat of the car, using one of his Louis Vuitton holdalls as a pillow. His driver’s murmuring _do you want the radio on or off?_ and he has to take a moment to understand what he’s being asked before replying, _Don’t care_. Everything outside the windows looks stretched and blurred, like laundry that’s gone too many rounds in the wringer. He remembers watching a Youtube clip years ago about this beach, and this airport, and how the planes dip so low to the ground on landing you can feel the wind-thrust of them whilst standing in the sand.

Here he is: checking into his hotel room, dropping the keycard on the nightstand, and falling on top of the bed with his boots on. He’s well knackered, all right, but he reckons he’s allowed to be. He’s just wrapped up a nearly year-long world tour, flying in from Manila without a chance to stop at home first. Liam’s wedding is wretched timing, but it’s not like he plans his major life events around Harry’s schedule, and it’s not like Harry can ask that of him.

Harry thinks that he too feels stretched and blurred, weariness sitting on him like a fingerprint smudge on a wineglass. When he next wakes, it’s a little past seven, local time, and he’s desperate for something to eat. Room service seems like a great idea but he knows people will have seen him entering the hotel and word will have spread. He ought to make an appearance. Before people start talking about how standoffish he’s gotten now that he’s some kind of solo superstar. Which — cool your jets, he wants to say but doesn’t.

He makes himself presentable, one two three. Hand through hair, shirt adjusted, buttons undone — but not _too undone_ , he’s not here to impress anyone. In the hallway he crosses paths with a young woman with ginger hair and barrettes (she looks honestly seventeen) leading a small child with hair like tufts of forest razed after fire. A big man trails after them. He’s wearing an obnoxious Hawaiian shirt and a touristy bum bag, but Harry knows security detail when he sees it. 

Rich kids, brother and sister, Harry decides. But then the woman’s calling out to the boy in a Welsh accent. “Slow down, Freddie! You’ll leave the whole world behind running like that, you will.” 

And oh. Yeah. He should’ve guessed, though Louis’ not been posting many pictures of Freddie now that he’s three and people haven’t stopped being shits about his son on the internet. Harry’s not sure he’s seen a picture of Freddie in at least a year, and kids do grow really fast at this age, he thinks, feeling stunned by it in a way that surprises even himself.

The door at the end of the hall’s been cracked open. He can hear Louis shouting, “Oi, Freddie, listen to Poppy, will ya!”

Freddie’s giggling as he runs down the rest of the hallway, trips, and comes to a rolling stop. Oh my god, thinks Harry, I regret everything about that time I signed up for CPR class, then blew it off to snog a Fashion Week model instead. But Poppy’s not hurrying her pace at all, and he watches as Freddie gets up and make a face like he’s trying to decide if this is a fall worth crying over or not. Clearly it’s not because Freddie continues on.

Louis’ come out of his room and is watching Harry in the hall. Their eyes meet.

“Styles, you show up at last,” Louis says. “Well, come on in then.” 

Niall’s sitting on Louis’ hotel bed shouting at the telly; they’re watching American college basketball. Harry thinks. He’s not sure. All basketball looks the same to him. Niall’s got a tumbler of whiskey in one hand and he’s not wearing a shirt, which is deeply unfair, in Harry’s opinion, because when you see an old bandmate slash former best friend for the first time in a year, shirts ought to be mandatory dress code. The sight of Niall’s cheerfully sunburned collarbones and crinkly chest hairs makes Harry feel woozy, as if he’s been drinking all day when so far he hasn’t touched a drop.

Things Harry could say to Niall in this, the year of our lord 2019:

_Hi_

_How are you_

_Sorry your first album didn’t do as well as mine and I hear you've been stalled on your second one_

_Sorry I’ve not been in touch even though we live in the same city_

_Sorry I never invited you to come see me on tour_

_Sorry your sun cream’s so shoddy_

What Niall says is: “Growing your hair out again?” He looks mildly pleasant, like Harry’s a neighbour with two kids dropping by with a tuna bake.

“Yeah,” Harry says, tugging at it. “Felt like it’s time again. Like my haircuts just go in cycles. The hairy cycle.” He waits for Niall to cackle at the pun. Niall doesn’t. 

Rude.

“‘s a cycle like rain, you know,” Harry says. “Precipitation, condensation, whatsit, whatsit.” 

Niall, who’s always been a bloke who appreciates a bit of weather, gives him a vague smile. “I get it, it’s funny.”

“ _Is_ Harry funny now?” Louis interrupts. “After all this time?”

“I’m funny,” Harry says, and he punches Louis on the arm. 

“Dunno about funnier but you definitely got weaker,” Louis says. “Barely even felt that.” Louis grins at him with the sharps of his teeth, making a stance like he’s ready to wrestle Harry into the pits of the earth, and Harry’s not dumb. He grins back at Louis, trying to hide his surprise that it’s Louis Tomlinson who’s making the first effort here, welcoming Harry back to the fold. Harry loves him so much then, he has the sudden urge to knit him a jumper or summat.

Niall’s turned back to the telly, sipping serenely on his whiskey. 

“You look peckish, mate,” Louis says. “Actually, you look bloody terrible in general, but you got that pale queasy look you get when you’ve not eaten.”

“I haven’t,” Harry admits.

“Nialler, move your arse and toss us the room service menu,” Louis barks. “Poppy’s gonna take Freddie out to explore—” He sees Harry’s curious look and snorts. “She’s his nanny, not that I gotta explain shit to you.”

Harry shrugs.

“While they’re gone, I’ve time to catch up with you prodigal brats, don’t I?” Louis says. “Too bad Liam’s downstairs fending off hordes of friends and family. No pity for him, though, our lucky groom.”

“Oooeee, prodigal. I didn’t know you knew such big words,” Niall says.

“Bugger off,” Louis retorts. He opens the menu Niall’s tossed him. “We eat like kings tonight.”

Harry looks over his shoulder. None of it looks particularly appetizing. “Garden salad,” he says.

“What the fuck, no,” laughs Louis. “Try again.”

 

:::

 

You get to that age, Gemma told him the last time they talked, which was about seven months ago, not that Harry tries to dwell on that number for too long. You get to that age where all you do is attend other people’s weddings.

Harry’s twenty-four and he wonders if this is the start. Liam’s proper apologetic when they crisscross in the hotel lobby that Harry’s not one of his groomsmen, but Harry waves that away because he gets it. “It’s not like I could’ve flown out for your stag anyway,” he says, and means for it to be friendly. Hates how it comes out sounding flippant instead. 

“Okay,” says Liam, looking weepy. In the distance a group of aunts and other assorted relations circle like great white sharks.

Harry puts his hand on Liam’s shoulder and turns him away from prying eyes. “You alright?” 

“I’m fine, bud,” Liam says, wiping at his eyes. “This is — the happiest day of my life, you know? Just like they said it would be.”

Liam spends the remainder of the afternoon, every time Harry sees him, being weepy at well-wishers, weepy at floral arrangements, weepy at BLT sandwiches, weepy at golf. 

Louis is one of Liam’s groomsmen, no surprises there. Niall is not, though when Harry sees them together at the private beach that afternoon, they’re throwing sand at each other, cracking open cold beers, and it’s like they’ve never been apart. “Always knew you’d be the first of us to get hitched, Payno,” Niall hoots. “Dreamy old romantic, you are. Didn’t think it’d be Pez, though.”

“Yeah, well,” Liam says, “me neither, and I’m fucking glad we were wrong.”

Harry lifts his beer. He’s folded himself into an inflatable donut, but the donut’s on the sand rather than in water. A beached donut. “To Pez,” he says lazily.

“To Pez,” Louis adds, “and a future of minivans and fat babies.”

“Christ, Tommo, there you go with the babies again.” Niall’s laughing, pushing his sunnies up his nose. “Not everyone’s ready to settle down boring and staid like you are.”

“I am,” Liam says happily. They all roll their eyes at his beaming face, and Niall tries to tip his beer onto him, only Liam’s faster and he gives Niall a good push. Niall’s arms go windmilling as he struggles for balance before falling arse-first into the sand, beer dribbling down his chest. Louis laughs at him. Harry hides a smirk.

“Can’t wait for the day, lads,” Louis says, “when we’re all middle-aged and pot-bellied, chilling out in each other’s backyards. Can see it in my head.” He touches his thumb and index finger together, brings it up to his right eye. “Liam and Pez with their one million disgustingly cute kids, me yelling at Freddie for some daft teenage shite. Niall at the BBQ pretending he knows what he’s doing—”

“Hey,” Niall says, “I’m a grill _master_.”

“—Harry trying to stay relevant even when he’s balding—”

“I’ve seen your relatives,” Harry says. “I know who’s gonna bald first around here.”

“I’m just sayin’.” Louis spreads his arms. “Gonna be a sick future, yeah? Oh, come off it, Liam, stop crying.” He wrestles him into a headlock. “Pez’s gonna think you’re actually dying of cancer or summat.”

“I’m crying cos I’m happy, you wanker,” Liam says. “But also cos I’m sad? Feels like we’re all moving on and—” They wait for Liam to turn it over his head, Liam’s slow to get there sometimes but he always does in the end. “We can’t not talk about it forever, you know.”

“Talk about what?” Niall asks, though his face has gone blank, cheekbones prickling red under the sun, and Harry’s sure his has too. The donut’s starting to dig into his back, overwarm and plasticky. It smells like the combined sun cream of everyone who’s ever used it before.

“The four of us,” Liam says simply. “But not now. After the wedding, alright?”

“Sure, Payno,” Louis says. “We’ll wait.”

The wedding is the following evening, sun tallow-soft and melting into the crease where the land meets the sea. Everyone’s gathered barefoot on the beach, sand squished between hairy toes, evening light slanting dusky shadows over their shoulders, their throats, their wedding finery. Harry can’t help but remember a time when he was ten and his mum sent him to summer camp. He’d hated it, cried for home every night except for when his camp counselor, an older boy Harry remembers idolizing with a fervor that now strikes him as an ill-timed crush, had gathered them round the campfire with his guitar. Ten-year-old Harry had listened to the rest of them singing with his cheek pressed to his knees, quiet, whilst watching the clouds bleed shades of pomegranate across the darkening sky. 

Liam and Perrie, surrounded by people who love them, fall into each other’s arms like neither of their knees are strong enough to hold them up. Harry joins everyone else as they clap, and clap, and clap. Louis’ got two fingers in his mouth, wolf-whistling.

The party begins afterwards, long farmhouse tables set out on the sand, fairy-lights strung between poles installed with outdoor heaters. Members of Little Mix are shouting merrily at each other, Leigh-Anne trying to usurp the DJ as everyone else mills about acquiring increasingly alcoholic drinks from the open bar. Harry’s running on fumes at this point, wishes he’d taken another nap before the ceremony, but he pulls Liam into a crushing hug and thumps him on the back. “Congrats, mate!” he yells, and Liam squeezes his bicep hard.

“Means a lot you could be here tonight,” he says.

“Nah,” Harry says, “wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”

“No, seriously,” Liam says. “I didn’t realize you’d be flying here directly after the end of your tour, not until, well, Niall brought it up.” Harry tries not to react to that. “So thanks for that. Means a lot.”

“Any time,” Harry says.

The party’s starting to spill over into the water. A group of kids are rolling up their trouser legs or lifting their skirts to splash about. Harry sees Louis carry Freddie on his shoulders and pretend to drop him into the ocean, Freddie shrieking with unbearable excitement. Harry nurses his fruity cocktail as he wanders away from the wedding party a bit, picking along the shore and ambling towards the distant pier lit up with bars and stalls where a massive thousand-foot Royal Caribbean cruise ship’s just docked — there goes the late-night tourist crowd.

There’s a figure walking ahead of him, also alone, an undone tie dangling from one hand. When Harry gets close enough he calls out his name. “Oi, Niall!”

Niall turns around. “Harry.”

“Nice tie,” Harry points.

“It’s paisley,” Niall says. “It’s bold.”

“I can see that.” He squints. “Or sorta. It’s getting too dark to tell.”

Niall laughs at him a little, a silent kind of laugh where he doesn’t make a sound. On Niall, whose laughs typically slosh around inside him like a ship at storm, it’s unnerving. Harry bites his tongue behind his teeth. “Mind if I join you?” he finally asks.

“Sure, mate.” Niall resumes his stroll. Harry with his longer legs has no trouble keeping up. He takes a cue from Niall and undoes his own tie, something Tom Ford he doesn’t even remember buying — probably Tom sent it to him. He’s so occupied in untangling his Windsor with his free non-cocktail-clutching hand that he doesn’t watch where his feet are going. Niall reaches out and steadies him as he wobbles. 

“Haven’t learned how to properly walk on land then?” Niall remarks, hand on Harry’s hip.

“Are you calling me a mermaid princess?” Harry asks, eyebrows raised.

“Bit fat-headed of you, innit, to think that if you’re a mermaid you’d automatically be a princess,” Niall says, pulling his hand away once he’s confident Harry can stand on his own. “Gotta be plenty of mermaids who _aren’t_ princesses. Mermaid construction workers. Mermaid accountants. Mermaid busboys.” 

“Mermaid grill masters,” Harry supplies.

“Not sure if grills work in the sea, what with the whole requiring fire thing and all,” Niall says. 

“Mermaid sushi chefs then.”

“Yeah,” Niall drawls, “mermaid sushi chefs.” 

Harry’s not seen Niall in a year, hasn’t been alone with him even longer. He thinks of the last real conversation they had that wasn’t just _fancy running into you at this L.A. party, is this your new girlfriend, nice to meet you_ , and maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the wind skipping over the slow lapping waves, or maybe it’s the blond tips of Niall’s hair glowing extraterrestrial in the moonlight, because Harry finishes his cocktail in three swallows and says, “I wasn’t trying to upshow you.”

“Say what?” Niall asks, startled like he wasn’t actually expecting Harry to ruin their nice little mermaid chat with something as inconvenient as emotions.

“I wasn’t trying,” Harry says slowly, “to upshow you. Let you drop the first single and everything, didn’t I.”

Niall pulls his upper lip back from his teeth. This too is an unfamiliar sight on him. “Sure, I pushed out the first single.” Harry thinks of how excited Niall had been, calling him up at two a.m. _I’m all jitters,_ he’d said. _C’mon, buddy, talk me down_ , and Harry had. 

“But,” Niall’s saying, “I knew I had to or I’d get eaten up by you and Liam. Had to be first or it wouldn’t work. Just strategy.” He swallows. “Then you went and dropped your album three bloody days after mine came out. Got eaten up anyway, didn’t I.”

“It weren’t my decision. My producers decided the release date.”

“Right then, and the great Harry Styles, he of the forty million Twitter followers, wet dream of girls around the world, has got no leverage over his producers at all,” Niall says. “Isn’t the whole _point_ of doing a solo album having total creative control?”

“Content control and PR control’s different. And total creative control’s a pipe dream,” Harry says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Come on, you know this.”

“What I _know_ ,” Niall says, “is that you knew how nervous I was to do my own thing.” He pitches his voice. “Oh Horan, the Irish one, he can’t sing or write, can he? While you, you get to _exist_ and people bend over to offer what you want.”

“That ain’t fair,” Harry says sharply, a hot pressure rising up his throat. “Didn’t you get to start a golf management company even though you know shit-all about management? Don’t say my name’s opened doors and yours hasn’t.”

Niall flinches. It’s hard, suddenly, for Harry to breathe, even though he stands by what he said. If the reception over Niall’s first single didn’t carry over to the rest of his album, it sucks but it was for reasons nothing to do with when Harry decided to release his. Niall had months and months of airplay with ‘This Town’, didn’t he? No competition from the rest of the band for ages. And then when Harry came onto the scene, it was with an album he worked fucking hard over. He _earned_ those multiple hits. What, was he supposed to slack off so Niall could stay in the spotlight? 

They’re all adults here, he thinks. All professionals. But god, Harry can’t help but think of a time when they weren’t. When they were stupid kids with more time than any of them knew what to do with, running on hopes and nerves. When they’d spend entire tours living in each other’s hoodies, getting their socks mixed up, smelling like each other’s deodorant, and Niall would call him that dumb doppelgänger nickname he loved so much. 

Or when he used to crawl into Niall’s bed after he hit the bottles too hard. Niall was his favourite for this because Niall was always so warm and nice about it, not a whinger like the others. Making him drink loads of water, ordering hangover food in the morning, and letting him pick what they watched on the hotel telly. Inevitably when they’d watch reruns of the Great British Bake Off, Harry would sniff _I can bake that cake_ , and Niall would never ever act like he didn’t believe him.

“I’m gonna head back to the party,” Niall says. 

“Alright,” Harry says, “I’m gonna walk some more.” Niall nods, and Harry catches him by the arm before he turns away. It’s more reflex than anything else, a younger Niall always within arm’s reach of a younger Harry. He’s not aware of doing it until it’s too late and he can feel Niall’s muscles shift beneath his fingers. _Have you been working out,_ Harry wants to ask hysterically. “Sorry,” is what he says out loud. 

“Don’t say sorry when you aren’t really,” Niall replies, but he doesn’t actually sound mad about it, just tired. “I’ll see you later, yeah? Don’t wander too far and get eaten by sharks.”

“Later,” Harry agrees, and watches him go.

 

:::

 

He’s floating in the inflatable donut again, this time in the resort’s pool, kicking up water lazily when a shadow looms over him. “Hi,” Liam says, “you have a mo?”

Louis and Niall are with him. Harry lowers his sunglasses and peers over the rims. “What is this,” he says, voice slurred with all the sleep he didn’t manage to get yesterday when the wedding revelry dragged into the wee hours of the morning. “An intervention?”

“That’s about right,” Louis says. “We hate to do this, but we drew straws and someone’s gotta save you from your own life decisions, so here we go.” He waits a beat. ”Those shorts make you look like a children’s birthday party entertainer.”

The shorts are pink with smiling winged hippopotamuses. Harry had squeaked excitedly in the store when he saw them, years and years ago.

“Also, what happened to your legs, mate?” Louis asks. “They’re _scaly_.”

Harry glances down. “Oh. Dry skin. They’ve been like that for a few months.” He catches Niall’s frown before it vanishes. “You know how it gets on tour.”

“Use some Vaseline or shit.”

“Your wish,” Harry says, waving a wrist, “is my command.”

“Can we all stop gawking at Harry’s legs? And are you gonna get out of that donut or what?” Liam asks, far too patient and chipper for a man who, less than twenty-four hours ago, pledged his love and loyalty forever until death do us part. Harry wonders where Perrie is. Probably lounging in bed wondering where her husband’s fucked off to.

“I like this donut,” Harry says, “just like I like my shorts. Plus I can see you fine from here.” 

“Whatever, don’t care, we’ll do it your way then,” Niall says shortly. He drops to the edge of the pool and sticks his legs in the water. They’re infuriatingly well-moisturized and perfect; even the scar tissue around his bad knee is attractive. Leaning forward, he hooks his fingers around the handle on Harry’s donut and drags him in like the day’s fishing catch. When the donut bumps up against the pool walls, Niall doesn’t let go, as if he’s doubtful Harry won’t float away given the first opportunity, as if he’s tethering Harry to him. Harry kicks him absently with his toes, feeling vindictive pleasure when he gets Niall’s t-shirt wet.

“Sooooo,” Liam says, folding himself beside Niall. Louis plops down on his left. “One Direction. It’s bloody 2019. We said when we went on hiatus that we’d make a decision when the time came.”

“No, you’re right,” Niall says, shading his eyes from the sun, or possibly just Harry’s face. “We’ve been faffing about it too long.”

“I love you lads,” Liam declares, “and—”

“We love you too, Daddy,” Harry says sarcastically. “Make us some jelly sandwiches now, won’t you?”

“Don’t be such a bell-end, H,” Louis interrupts. “It’s like you get worse every time we see you. Critical wank levels exceeded.”

“Sorry,” Harry says, closing his eyes. “I’ll try to keep my wank in my bank. Go on then. It’s 2019 and Liam loves us all.”

“I _do_ ,” Liam says. “It don’t even matter that we don’t talk that much anymore, or no one’s used the group chat to send drunken selfies in ages.” Louis smirks the smirk of the guilty. “No matter where we go in life, you three are my brothers. I wouldn’t trade our years together for anything, not even if you had a gun to my head.”

Brothers. Harry turns that word over and thinks of Zayn, who isn’t here in Saint Maarten this week even though Liam and Perrie had buckled in and sent him an invite. Not that Harry blames him for not coming. They’d talked about it, once, bumping into each other at the Teen Choice Awards a few months ago. _Are you going_ , Zayn had asked quietly, bowing his head so the paps couldn’t hear, and Harry’d nodded while turning and smiling for the flashing cameras. _The two standout successes of the former One Direction_ , he’d heard a journo saying cheekily later that night, and he’d been churlish at the same time he’d been pleased, glad to be counted a success. Not everyone escapes boy bands unscathed.

Harry thinks about texting Zayn right now, telling him, _The Hardy Boys’ve got me surrounded, send help_. They’re friends again, sort of. Or at least Zayn sends him snarky texts at awards ceremonies and Harry returns the favour, hiding his mobile between his knees. And they say nice, complimentary things about each other in interviews, and Zayn admitted to GQ that he watched the last movie Harry had a part in even if he doesn’t much like romantic comedies. That’s friends, innit.

 _Dearest Zayn_ , Harry composes in his head, like he’s a 19th century invalid languishing of consumption, and this is his last will and testament. _We’re about to finish off 1D for good and when I look back at this moment in my life, I’ll always remember I was stuck in an inflatable donut. Actually stuck. Like my arse is plastered to this thing and I can’t let anyone know_.

Liam’s still speechifying. Clearly he’s rehearsed it. Harry wonders if Liam stayed up late practicing in front of the mirror, which is what he does with any sort of public speaking. Considering last night was his wedding night, poor Perrie, though he can imagine her helping him, hand on his back, all encouraging pep talk and supportive cheers. Harry feels a such a rush of fondness for them both.

“—but we’re not who we used to be anymore, we’ve got different projects, different interests, and I don’t wanna be the one responsible for holding any of you back—” Liam babbles.

“Fuck this, we’ll be here all night,” Louis snaps. “All in favour of getting back together, raise your hand.”

No one raises their hand. Niall’s fingers tighten around Harry’s donut handle. He’s biting his lip raw. Don’t do that, Harry wants to say, you’re going to bleed. He listens instead to the lapping of the pool, the slosh of it against his knees. 

“Well, that’s that,” Louis says, ever the pragmatist. “Bye bye One Direction.”

“I feel like we ought to take cardboard effigies of ourselves and burn them, Guy Fawkes style,” Liam confesses.

“What the fuck,” Louis says. “That’s disturbing.”

“Yeah, Leemo,” Niall says, coughing a bit to clear his throat. It sounds like there’s something stuck in it. They all politely pretend they don’t notice. “I know we all bit the heads off cake versions of each other, but tossing you into the fire? We’re splitting up, not dying.”

“The band’s splitting up,” Liam says automatically. “ _We’re_ not. Cos we’re more to each other than just a band.” He pauses. “Perrie wrote that line for me. Isn’t it great?”

“Liam,” Harry says, “if the whole musician gig don’t work out, have you ever thought about being — and I mean this seriously, so don’t hit me — a motivational speaker?”

Liam lights up.

 

:::

 

He runs into Liam and Louis that evening, when he’s dragged his bags to the lobby waiting for his lift to the airport. Liam and Perrie wander by, hand in hand, coming back from the beach. Louis’ following them, walking slowly so that Freddie can keep up. “Leaving then?” Louis asks archly when he spies Harry lurking behind the floral arrangements.

Harry’s not one for long drawn-out goodbyes, would prefer to sneak off into the night and avoid them altogether. It was something he and Kendall had in common, why they worked so well together until they didn’t. “Yeah,” he says, running a hand through his tangled hair. “Got a meeting with a casting director.”

“Fancy,” Perrie says, but she sounds amused by it more than anything else. “Let Liam give you a hug before you go, or he’ll mope about it.”

“I totally will,” Liam says.

“Can’t have that.” Harry lets Liam stick his face in his neck where his stubble’s all scratchy. Liam grabs him so hard he nearly lifts Harry off his feet.

“You smell nice,” Liam tells him. “Kinda girly but nice.”

“You smell like beer and week old laundry,” Harry says. “See you soon, alright? Enjoy your honeymoon, both of you. Don’t break any furniture shagging on top of it.” Perrie lets loose a delighted cackle.

“Can we say ‘bye Uncle Harry’?” Louis says, crouching by Freddie. Freddie gives it a game attempt, frowning in concentration, and Harry smiles at him. Makes a mental note to mail Freddie an extravagant birthday gift to make up for the previous birthdays he’s forgot. 

“Good job, lad,” Louis says. “Now can we say ‘Uncle Harry, you’re still a prat’?”

“ _Louis_!” Liam says, scandalized.

“He won’t remember,” Louis says confidently. “And why can Harry talk about shagging in front of him and I can’t teach him some primary school insults?”

“It’s not a _competition_ about who can be the worse person in front of your son,” Liam wails.

“Also, toddlers’ brains are like sponges,” Perrie says. “I read that in a book when I was babysitting for a friend. They’re always soaking up new information.” She shrugs. “You’ve probably already ruined him for life.”

“You hear that?” Louis says, giving Freddie a high five that Freddie laughs at. “You’re ruined already, kid.”

“Ru’ned!” Freddie echoes, and Perrie lets out another one of her cackles.

“Where’s Nialler anyway?” Liam wonders, craning his neck as if he suspects Niall’s having tea in the foliage. “He’d want to say goodbye too.”

“Last I saw him, he was using his Irish charm to hit up that fit bird by the bar,” Louis says. “You know, the one with all the piercings?”

“That fit bird?” Liam sputters. “That’s my cousin Angela!”

“Well, mate, if you don’t want Niall Horan to be your future cousin-in-law, you better put a stop to it,” Louis says, and Liam looks like he sorely wants to. 

Harry’s stomach is a stone in his abdomen. Must be something he ate, he thinks. Hotel food always sits funny in him. “S’okay,” he says. “I’ll send him a text or summat.” They all know he won’t, but once again they pretend otherwise. He glances out the window where he sees a black tinted car pull up to the curb. “Think that’s me.”

“See ya then,” Louis says, keeping an eye on Freddie who’s started to wander off. “And, like, try to do something about yourself. You look like hell.”

 

:::

 

He feels like hell too. But it’s just the fatigue, he tells himself. Traveling nonstop for nearly a year, attending a big wedding, and then back to L.A. and straight into casting calls. He’s not superhuman, no matter the number of kale and goji berry smoothies he mainlines into his body, or the yoga classes he attends where he puts his head between his knees and reminds himself to breathe.

Harry likes to work, is the thing. He’s always done best when he’s kept busy, his schedule chock-a-block from morning until night with friends and meetings and promises. Otherwise his brain feels too roomy. Too much space for thoughts to clump together and stick. Kendall had called him morose once, which he’d taken exception to, but he thinks she might be right. The band all had their own ways of warding off moroseness when they could feel it coming on. Zayn would smoke, Louis would rage-play MMORPGs and crush twelve-year-olds, Liam would lift weights, and Niall would disappear onto fairways at first morning light to golf, coming back with new callouses and a faint sunburn tickling his nose.

Harry works. Jeff’s lined up interviews and media appearances, a charity gala one night and a dinner party at a Hollywood producer’s the next. Ride your star while it’s high, his publicist Keiko says, and it helps that pictures from Liam’s wedding are floating onto the internet. Us Weekly’s sure to snatch that up.

“You look like you’re attending a funeral in these pictures,” Jeff says when Harry’s over for dinner. “What, you fistfight with Horan on the beach or something?”

Harry startles. “Er.”

“You love spending time with Payne and Tomlinson. The wonder twins themselves,” Jeff says. “It’s Horan you’ve always seemed to have a problem with. He makes you moody.”

“I don’t got a problem with Niall,” Harry says. “I used to spend more time with him than anyone else.”

“Maybe that’s the problem then,” Jeff says absently, passing the quinoa. “When you start out a friendship that intense, there’s no give to it. It’s bound to crack.” Jeff’s been on a self-help kick and there’s no end in sight.

“Okay, _relationship Yoda_ ,” Harry says. It’s hard to sound properly cool and dismissive when you’re stuffing your gob with Glenne’s quinoa salad, but he gives it a go. “Reckon that was more me and Louis. But we’re good now,” he adds. “Remind me to send something huge and obnoxious to his kid. I’m not Freddie’s dad. I can spoil him rotten.”

Jeff makes him type it into his calendar. It’s the only way Harry will remember anything. The reminder pops up three days later, when Harry’s driving down Venice Boulevard on his way to meet with a director who’s interested in having him in his next film. After he parks at the studio he sees it on his lockscreen: BUY PRESENT FOR FREDDIE.

His next few days spin out in a series of calendar reminders. _Buy present for Freddie_ , check. _Call back the studio_ , check. _Meet with producers_ , check. _Talk to Ariana about our upcoming collab_ , check. _Pharrell touch base?_ check. _Drinks with Alexa when she’s in town_ , check. _Glenne’s party_ , check. _Halsey concert drop-by_ , check. _Billboard interview_ , check. _Make-a-Wish foundation afternoon_ , check. _Find new assistant_ , check. _Hire assistant to find new assistant_ , check. _2nd producer meeting_ , check. _Doctor’s appointment_ , check. _Legal team meeting_ , check. _Merchandising team meeting_ , check. _Talk to real estate agent_ , check. _Schedule home repairs_ , check. _Send thank-you gifts to tour crew_ , check. _Talk to Keiko about new strategy_ , check check check. 

Harry is a consummate professional. When he makes promises to work with someone, he keeps it. He never blows a meeting, never shows up late, doesn’t even like flaking out on parties he’s RSVPed to, thinks it’s rude. Fame, or his slice of it, is all about keeping peace with other people stuck in the same algae pond as you. Because when media inevitably spins his mistakes (Harry Styles ignored someone, Harry Styles flirted with some other bloke’s girlfriend, Harry Styles didn’t say congrats) into a huge gossip drama, he wants to be able to say, _We good?_ and have the answer be yes.

In between the noise, he sleeps. Drops into his bed he’s barely seen with his face buried in pillows, and it’s like he hasn’t slept in months, he wants it so bad. Passes out until his alarm blares, and then he has to shower, pull on clothes, and leave his house ready to be the person he wants to be. 

The person he has to remind himself that he _is_. Because Jeff’s right. He did let himself look sullen in Liam’s wedding photos. In one of the reception photos he’s staring at Niall like Niall took a wee in his champagne. Which Niall would never do, of course; only public property’s good enough for Niall to piss in. Twitter’s already buzzing about the supposed Styles-Horan feud, especially now that they’ve released the news of One Direction breaking up for good to the public.

_”A source close to Horan said, ‘They’ve never gotten along. Niall and Harry have been at each other’s throats since meeting on X-Factor. It’s why Harry released his album to compete with Niall’s. Niall’s glad there’s no Harry in his future anymore.’”_

He wants to text Niall the day Keiko sends him that link. Wants to say, _did you know that we’re feuding. you better watch out. i know where you live and where you hide your protein powder. you looked great in that suit by the way_. 

Wants to. Doesn’t.

It’s not just Niall. His mum texts him at least once a week, sending little updates about her life, work, Robin, quirky photos of random Holmes Chapel things she thinks he’d get a kick out of. He used to send her pictures back, tit for tat. Look, a poofy, squint-eyed dog; look, liquid nitrogen ice cream still a-smoke; look, trees bending wildly in a storm. But it’s been a while since his last one. Too busy, he supposes. 

He thinks how sometimes when she’s holding up an object to steady it for the camera, he can see the blur of her fingers and her bitten-down nails. The same fingers that’d pulled the crown of his head in for a kiss before she’d sent him off to X-Factor. _You’ll do fine, love_ , she’d said, the smell of her perfume in his nostrils, and he did.

His last text from his mum, timestamped three days ago: _honey, I know you’re very very busy, so I’m sure it’s nothing, just your mum being a fretful bother. but I heard the news about the band. if you want to come home sometime, even for a brief visit, you know Robin and I’d be delighted_

He takes his phone out and looks at her message again. His thumbs leave an oily residue on the screen. He scrolls back on a whim and finds his last conversation with Niall, which was in 2017. Niall’s _wanna grab lunch ! my treat . HA ha hA !_ gathering sediment at the bottom. Harry realizes he never replied to it.

He goes back to sleep.

 

:::

 

This one’s for you, Louis: he buys some Vaseline. Cheap stuff from the chemist’s, the kind his mum used to make him slather on after baths, starting an obsession with having soft, clean skin that’s paralyzed Harry Ten-Step Korean Skincare Regime Styles the rest of his life. 

(“It’s a good thing you’re a multimillionaire, little bro,” Gemma had said to him after _Four_ was released. “Cos the way your tastes run, you’d be living in a rubbish bin with piles of debt.”

“I’m only like those _because_ of the way my life turned out,” Harry’d replied officiously, nose in the air. “Bit of a chicken and egg scenario, if you think about it.”

“I do see a chicken,” she’d said and bopped him on the head.) 

But Vaseline’s four dollars a pop for a nice-sized tub, so “I’m a bog standard bird despite my inconveniently well-known brother” Gemma can’t mock him even if she could see him. Speaking of poultry, that’s what he feels like, swiping a huge snotful of Vaseline with two fingers and rubbing it all over his legs like he’s greasing himself up for Christmas dinner. He sniffs his legs. Mm. Plasticky.

It doesn’t quite do the trick. Harry’s skin is always the first system to falter when he’s got a lot on his plate. Would always break out during the toughest part of tours with the band, when he was missing home the most, his unhappiness showing itself to the world in the form of volcanic zits and ingrown chin hairs. Twenty-four’s been treating him better than sixteen for the most part, except now instead of zits he’s getting dry red patches on his legs that chafe and itch throughout the day.

“Old people skin problems,” he jokes to a Columbia label manager he has a meeting with, who looks mildly interested but mostly pained. Harry can see this but he can’t make himself stop talking. “Pimples when you’re younger, but as you get older you got less moisture in your skin, did you know that?”

“Pretty sure that’s still years away for you,” the manager replies.

“One day,” Harry says, “‘m gonna be so dry, I’ll crack in the middle of a concert. Snap in two.”

“Uh huh.”

“You’ll need two assistants to carry me off-stage,” Harry says. “One for my top half, one for my bottom half. Maybe set up a screen, so we don’t scare small children.” He drums his fingers on the table. “Mind the bottom half. If it’s not got my face attached, you might forget whose it is.”

The bloke coughs. Harry natters on. 

“Did you know old people don’t need as much sleep? What do you think of this as an idea?” He trails off, thinking.

“An idea for what?” asks the manager, perplexed. “Your next album?”

“No, for a comic,” Harry says patiently. “While Batman and Superman go to sleep, it’s the folks at the Gotham retirement home who keep an eye on the skies for trouble.”

“I think Superman might not need sleep. He’s an alien.”

“Superman needs sleep,” Harry says confidently. Then he scratches his nose. “Or does he? I’ve no idea.”

He gets a text from Jeff as he walks out of the Columbia offices. _STOP TALKING. YOUR SEXY ENGLISH ACCENT CAN DO A LOT BUT IT CAN’T SAVE YOU FROM YOURSELF_.

That night, after he gets back from a party that may or may not have been thrown in his honour (it was never made clear to him, he spent most of it trying to pretend he knew what was going on while eating skewered prawns), his legs are drier and itchier than ever. They’re red too, like the surface of Mars. He goes online and searches for a better moisturizer, but can’t seem to decide which one he wants, so he buys, like, fifty, and chooses next-day delivery for them all. 

For lack of any better ideas, when they arrive he slathers all fifty moisturizers on at once and walks around his house dripping shea butter, coconut oil, and (direct from the frozen Canadian north) bear grease. He sits on the floor and snaps a photo of his napalmed-out legs, then runs the photo through one of them artsy filtering apps. 

What comes out is nothing resembling a human body. He puts it on Instagram.

Somewhere in between all this, the days passing and pulling him headlong with it, his birthday happens. He tells Jeff not to make a fuss this year. Twenty-two was a great bash, twenty-three and twenty-four weren’t shabby either, but he’s been knackered this whole February; he’d rather stay at home. Which is what he does, turning twenty-five whilst binge-watching _Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives_ on his couch, watching his phone light up with notifications. A few friends give him a ring, but he doesn’t pick up. He’s allowed to be antisocial on his own birthday.

Ten to midnight, he tweets, _Thanks for the love. H_. It’s enough.

The dermatologist he sees the next week prescribes him some hydrocortisone for his legs and tells him to take baths. “Daily baths if you can do it,” she says. “Let your skin soak up as much water as it can to break the damage cycle.”

He doesn’t have time for leisurely soaks in his daily schedule, but he gives it a try when his dinner date pleads stomach flu. He runs the hot water in his tub and then drops a Lush bath bomb in it. Already he’s disobeying two of his derm’s orders: lukewarm water only and nothing chemical to irritate his skin. But Harry’s never taken a bubble-less bath in his life and he’s not about to start now. 

The acoustics in his bathroom are top-notch. He sings one of his own songs while frothing bubbles into a mountain over his crotch, and wonders if that makes him a narcissist. Well. There are worse things. 

(“Is this something you’re working on?” asked one of his hookups after the last One Direction tour.

“Yeah,” Harry’d said. “But no one’s supposed to know.”

She’d been pleased by that. “Gonna go solo like Zayn then?” She put her hand on his belly as they lay in bed, sweaty from a good shag. “Hey, is it true you hate Zayn?”

“Nah, I don’t hate anyone,” Harry said. “That’s not me.”

“But your face is all weird,” she said. “You’ve got a frown line, right—” she stroked it, “—here.”

Harry groaned. “‘s not hate.” Full of alcohol, midnight, and sex-carelessness, he’d said, “Maybe more like jealousy?” Asked it like a question waiting for an answer. “Zayn wanted to go, so he — left.” He closed his eyes. “It was a dick move, but. He never apologized. For what he wanted.”)

The candle he’s lit musks up the loo with rose and amber. Classy stuff. He’s got vodka and OJ lined up on the lid of his toilet. He reaches over with plenty of clumsy sloshing and mixes himself a screwdriver, heavy on the vodka. He feels woozy after drinking it, red-faced and dizzy from the combination of alcohol and hot water. 

He pictures the headlines: _Pop star falls asleep in bath, knocks over candle, burns house down. Dermatologist says, ‘He didn’t break the damage cycle.’_

He imagines Niall looking in the open casket at Harry’s naked, pruny, bathwater body and crying because he wished he’d been nicer. That the last words they ever exchanged weren’t standing in front of a hotel elevator and Niall saying dully, _Up or down?_ And Harry, too busy eating a banana, going, _Nghhh?_

Harry picks up his phone, and holds onto it very gingerly so that he doesn’t drop it into the water. He shoots off a text to Nick. _You free for a chat?_

No immediate answer. Inexcusable. He polishes off a second screwdriver and swipes Jeff’s number, putting it on speakerphone and listening to it ring and ring. The acoustics really are fantastic, he thinks, light-headed. The water’s so warm now he feels kind of nauseous. When the ringing dies off and he lands in Jeff’s voicemail, he opens with, “Heyyyy. Why’s no one around — hic! Are you all doing things without me? Not that I care. Guess what I’m doing right now. No, go on, guess…”

He keeps on talking and forgets the rest of it in the morning.

 

:::

 

Jeff gives him the name of a professional. “She’s discreet. Worked with plenty of industry folk before so she knows the biz,” he says, and Harry raises his eyebrows, mostly at Jeff’s unironic use of the word ‘biz.’ But practically everyone he knows has a therapist, so it’s not like he’s particularly shocked by Jeff’s suggestion. He books an appointment with Dr. Sengupta for a Thursday afternoon in between studio sessions to start writing material for his next album. Jeff says he’d rather Harry take a break, but Harry wants to get a head start.

“I looked it up,” Harry says after he sidles into her office, shaking her hand and flashing her a smile that shows off his dimples. It’s hard to tell if she seems charmed. “I know that sleeping all the time’s a sign of depression, and so’s not being able to sleep. I don’t know that I’m depressed, though. More like… stressed? Been stressed since I was sixteen, you’d think I’d be used it by now.”

“I mean,” Dr. Sengupta says, “it’s too early to say, isn’t it? I’ve only just met you, Mr. Styles.”

“Ha,” Harry says. “So what’d you wanna know about me? Should I start telling you about my entire life? I can start with my childhood, not that there’s anywhere else to start. Logically, I mean.”

“How about you start,” Dr. Sengupta says, “by telling me what you did after you woke up yesterday.”

“I can do that,” says Harry. He’s actually pretty chuffed by this whole therapist thing, wonders why he didn’t do it sooner. He likes talking, likes talking about himself, and usually people get bored with his long, rambling stories and tell him to shut it. But Dr. Sengupta is literally paid to listen to him. It’s great. Harry could talk forever.

“So I seem stressed, right?” Harry says happily, all too eager to self-diagnose. “My weird sleeping habits, always being tired, my mood swings, my skin problems, my accidental rageface at Niall.” He’s got this. WebMD’s got this. 

“Actually,” Dr. Sengupta says mildly, taking a sip of her tea. “You seem kind of lonely.”

“Excuse you,” Harry says. “I’ve loads of friends.”

“Isn’t that being somewhat facetious?”

“I’m always facetious,” Harry says without hesitation. “In addition to being incorrigible, glib, and a raconteur.” He plays with his cross. “It’s a life stage, I think. Like I’m standing in the crack of one chapter of my life and the next. Stuck in the book spine. Do you ever think about how clever it is to call what binds a book together the ‘spine’? It’s a great piece of poetic description.”

“I’m not sure I’ve ever considered it before.”

“I went to the British Library a couple months ago when I was in town for a show,” Harry says. “Popped into one of their exhibits. All these old books that’d been preserved. Their spines cracked open like—” he spreads his hands. “It was lit. You should check it out.”

“If I’m in London, I will,” Dr. Sengupta says. “Do you often visit libraries and museums?”

“No,” Harry replies. “But maybe in another life, I did. Just cos I dropped out of high school doesn’t mean I don’t like to learn.” He shrugs. “I read a lot.”

“Read anything good lately?”

“Sure,” he says. “ _The Spy Who Came in from the Cold_. John Le Carré. Nick tweeted about him.” He tries to remember when that might’ve been whilst scratching a tiny cut on his chin from his morning shave. “Do you read much, Dr. S.?” he asks politely, glancing at her plentiful bookshelves. 

“Mostly in my field of work,” Dr. Sengupta says. “Not much time for leisure reading anymore, I’m afraid.” 

“If you wanna do something badly enough, you make the time for it.” He rewinds that sentence in his head. “Christ, I sound like a git, don’t I? But ‘s true.” He lapses into silence, studying Dr. Sengupta’s diplomas from Brown and Stanford on the wall. They’re nice. Posh-looking. On the shaded residential street outside her clinic, where wisteria and wild grape bloom atop her neighbour’s trellises and there’s someone playing scales on a piano, he can hear a car alarm go off. The sound reverberates through the window, pinging his molars, and he gestures for permission to close it.

“Go ahead.”

When he sits back down, it’s quieter. “Y’know,” he says sardonically, “maybe I _am_ a dumb high school dropout since I really didn’t guess this is where we’d end up.”

“We?” she says, seemingly unsurprised by the swerve his chatter has taken. “Do you mean you or I, or do you mean—?”

“I mean why Jeff referred me here,” Harry says. “Why everyone feels like they gotta walk on eggshells around me. Let’s not pretend we don’t know, yeah? My band.” He presses his knees together. “Liam married, Louis with a kid, and Niall hating me. The end of One Direction.” He grimaces. “Not with a bang but with a whimper. Ending not because we don’t like each other anymore — well, except Niall, who hates me, did I say that already. And not because the world forgot about us either, or we failed. Not because we stopped meshing together musically. We ended, for lack of a better word, cos of _life stuff_.”

“Life stuff.”

“Life stuff,” Harry confirms. “Wives and babies and SUVs. Diapers and couples brunches and petty jealousy.”

“The way you talk about it, it doesn’t sound as if you want any of that for yourself.”

“‘m twenty-five now,” Harry says. “I’m not ready to settle. I wanna take over the world.”

“Is there anyone who says otherwise?” Dr. Sengupta remarks. “I also feel compelled to point out that being married or having children isn’t the same as being put to pasture.”

He ignores that last comment. He toys with his rings. Remembers how the lads used to make a game out of leaning over and yanking at them, trying to see if they could make Harry yelp. He pushes the memory down. “If I don’t got a lot of people in my life anymore,” he says, “it’s cos I’m still moving while everyone else’s slowed down. Like The Matrix. You ever seen The Matrix?”

“I’ve seen it,” Dr. Sengupta says drolly.

“Time’s barely seeping through,” Harry says, really getting into this metaphor. “Everyone’s standing still, and it’s agonizing to watch, cos you want to scream at them, _what’s wrong with you_? _Move_ , people.” He reaches down to scratch idly at his leg through his jeans before he remembers not to. “With Liam and Louis and the rest, whatever, they’re happy standing still. Liam and Perrie are putting their music careers on hold to start a family, did you know? Madness, innit.”

“But,” he takes a breath through his teeth, “least Liam’s decided what he wants. Niall—” he clenches on the name. “So my album blew Niall’s out of the water. Boo hoo hoo. So his second one’s in some kind of creative limbo. He’s the one who always said he didn’t care if he couldn’t sell out stadiums on his own, that he _liked_ the smaller venues, but it’s like—” he drums his fingernails on his knees: tap, tap, tap. “The moment me and Liam proved we could, he gave up. He’s fucking _Niall Horan_. He’s supposed to laugh at us and prove us wrong.”

“So what you said earlier. That time’s come to a crawl,” Dr. Sengupta says. “That’s what you think.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, relieved that she gets it. “I’m waiting for them to catch up.”

“And you’re Neo dodging the bullets?”

Harry looks up at her through his eyelashes. “I’m the bullet,” he says.

 

:::

 

The meetings with the casting director pays off, and Harry lands a part in Michelle MacLaren’s next project. He’s seen the episodes MacLaren’s directed for Game of Thrones and Breaking Bad, and he’s proper stoked, writes her and Nina an immediate thank you email. 

Her new project’s a four-part miniseries based on H.G. Wells’ _The Time Machine_ ( _won’t be anything like the 2002 movie, I promise_ , she writes in her reply), so he goes and orders a copy of the book.

Science fiction’s not really his thing (his thing is British historicals, non-fiction on really minute topics, and the occasional trashy romance, in that order), but he has a rare evening that he’s not, in Jeff’s words, tetris-ed to shit. He puts on the kettle and waits for the water to boil, standing over his kitchen counter reading.

His concentration’s shot, though, hasn’t been there since the end of his tour. Liam’s wedding fucked it up, he thinks irritably. One Direction fucked it up. He’s been working with Dr. Sengupta to _un_ fuck it, but they’ve only had three sessions and Harry finds himself increasingly rambling about inane shit like how he’s trying to give up gluten but it’s not working well or a cactus he saw in someone’s flat that he thought was a person’s head, and it gave him a fright. He wonders why Dr. Sengupta doesn’t try to lead him back on topic. Maybe she thinks the state of Harry’s brain can be explained by human-shaped cacti and gluten-free bagels.

(“You look tense,” Cara had said to him yesterday when they had lunch together, making sure they sat in view of the pap that followed them. “Have you been keeping up with yoga?”

“I start each day by greeting the sun in warrior pose and willing away the toxins in my body,” Harry’d replied very seriously. “Through clear thought and a daily dose of omega-three prune juice, I am one with the cosmos.”

“Well shit, Styles,” she’d said. “Cosmos all ya like. You don’t need to be a prat about it, is all.”)

Harry gets two chapters into _The Time Machine_ and has to stop. His head feels like it’s pounding nails into the cement. His kettle starts hissing and he pours the hot water into a mug, grabbing a teabag from a cupboard and dipping it inside. All the money in the world, and he still stocks up with boxes of Tetley’s. He watches the tea bag steep with a sort of dry-eyed mesmer, until the water’s bled through with ginger and scalding his tongue when he takes a sip.

He suddenly decides he wants to call his mum after all. Maybe he can make her read _The Time Machine_ out loud to him. He’s always really liked being read to, and sinking into the slow easy comfort of someone else’s voice.

“Harry?” she mumbles. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Mum,” Harry says, cradling his tea. “Fancy a chat?”

“It’s two in the morning, love.”

“Oh.” Harry does the math on his fingers. “Forgot the time difference. Did that with Nick too, I think. Sorry about that. I’ll, er, ring back later. Bye, Mum, love you.”

“Wait, Harry—” But he’s already disconnected.

It’s only six p.m. in L.A. and he’s already going stir-crazy inside his house, doesn’t want to be here for a second longer. He reckons it’s proper weather for an evening run. Decision made, he pushes his barely-touched mug across the counter and goes hunting for his gear: shirt, shorts, trainers, armband for his phone, headband for his unruly hair. He locks up his house behind him, stretches on the sidewalk, and takes off.

Liam’s the one he misses for this. They used to jog foreign cities together on tour with Paul and his crew trailing silently behind them. They’d make bets over whether they could give security the slip if they ran fast enough, though usually they weren’t too successful. Louis and Zayn were never any good as jogging partners, both of them with a lazy streak, and Niall wasn’t supposed to put that kind of pressure on his knee.

Christ. They haven’t been a band for three years, which is half of the time they actually _were_ a band, and he can’t even take a jog on a bloody ordinary night without thinking of the four — five — of them together, everything he’s coming across a reminder of _remember when_. 

He makes himself stop thinking about useless things. His legs itch as he runs until it feels like he’s carrying a small sunburn. He stares ahead.

The sangria blush of a California sunset reminds him of the very first time he saw it, when he was still so easily amazed by things, having crossed an ocean to be here. The air’s thick and syrupy with hardly a breeze, sidewalks wet-simmering with heat, and he’s mad for it still, this city rooting him in its feral, sickly sweet beauty. City of angels.

But as he continues his route, he thinks of another place that he loves. Holmes Chapel with its ashy skies and gently sloping roofs, its weedy gardens, its spiny trees where the leaves run gold and scarlet in fall like the raspberry bakewells from Ms. Donoghue’s cake shop, its village fairs where he’d see all the kids he went to school with. Who’re now teachers and scientists and accountants and plumbers and perpetual grad students, even though in Harry’s yearbooks, kept on his mum’s shelf, they’re all smiling puberty bombs with shaggy hair and braces. 

He wonders if any of them ever came to his shows. Maybe, when he’s striving to put something out in the world that won’t be soon forgotten, they’re also there in the lists of people he wants to impress. Proof that he did, in fact, grow up.

He makes himself finish his run, even though his calves are itchy and stiff and he tastes iron in his mouth. 5k along his usual route, and then back to his house through the backyard where the fig trees glow like ghosts in the dusk. He lets himself collapse on the newly cut grass that smells like young dirt and the sense-memory of the Spanish songs his gardener sings over the sawing of the lawn mower. He tips over and rolls around until his shirt’s stained and his knees are prickled. He feels like an animal, like something wild and foregone.

On his way in, he doesn’t wash the mug of tea in the kitchen. He doesn’t check the three new texts his mum’s left on his phone, or the one from Louis that’s probably about his gift for Freddie. He goes straight to bed and lies on top of the sheets, eyes closed to the throb of his temples, counting his own heartbeats.

 

:::

 

This is not his room that he wakes up in. This is not his bed, those are not his pillows, and that is not his jumper thrown haphazardly across a duvet that he doesn’t recognize. He wakes up in a stranger’s home.

 

:::

 

He remembers Niall telling him once, in between wolfing down supper in Sarah’s kitchen before going on stage. “Did you know,” Niall had said, cheeks red and mouth laughing, “that time travel’s legit possible. Don’t make that face at me, I’m not pulling your leg! Time travel’s possible if you look at the, er, physics of it, only we haven’t yet figured it out how to do it.”

“God,” Harry’d said. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, it’s gross.”

 

:::

 

When Louis took him on that roller coaster that was supposed to erase all of Harry’s fears about roller coasters, he’d pretended to love it because he’d looked up to Louis then, had wanted to seem cool and not babyish, which was how he actually felt. He’d smiled after when Louis was shouting in his ear, _That wasn’t so bad, right?_ He’d smiled all the way until he’d excused himself to the loo and threw up in the toilet.

 

:::

 

He feels that way now, queasy and bowl-bellied. He remembers Zayn and Liam jumping on his bed, shouting, “Hazza, Hazza, time to wake up, the bus is gonna leave without you.”

 

:::

 

Harry’s always been good in an emergency. Louis once called him “too slow and sleepy-faced to react properly” but Harry rather prefers to think of it not panicking easily. Sirens, blood, lockdowns — he takes it in stride. At first he waits for the disorientation to simply go away. He’s spent most of the past year in hotel rooms and such; his own room is bound to look slightly foreign to him when he’s still sleep-slow. 

When ten minutes of lying on the sheets blinking at the ceiling doesn’t change things, he sits up and goes over the possibilities of how he might be in someone else’s room. This is a brief list that includes: drunken amnesia, actual amnesia, kidnapping.

He doesn’t remember drinking last night (probably) and isn’t sure how he would’ve gone about acquiring actual amnesia. Kidnapping is a thrilling thought, and the kidnapping of your favourite boybander, he vaguely recalls, was the plot of a teen novel by someone or the other that Niall snapchatted a while back in hysterical straits. But Harry’s pretty sure that’s not real life. He doesn’t _feel_ kidnapped anyway, and one would feel it if they were kidnapped, he firmly believes.

It’s not his bedroom, but as he surveys it more closely it occurs to him that it also sort of _is_. That is, the bed and the dresser and more or less all of the furniture is wrong. But he sees parts and pieces of things that he remembers owning: his zebra print peacoat slung over the chair, his Gibson guitar case with the union jack leaned against the bookshelf, his natty, tea-stained copies of Georgette Heyer on the floor, his rings filling the pewter dish on the nightstand.

“What the fuck,” Harry says out loud, putting on the rings. Some of them are new but the others are definitely his, and even the new ones fit perfectly when he slides them on. He tests the weight of them, icy against his knuckles.

There’s an unfamiliar phone facedown on the nightstand in a glittery black case. It’s cracker-thin, an iPhone but not a model he’s ever seen before, and Harry goes through iPhones like ticket stubs, he’s always dropping them into toilets and on sidewalks. He worries that he’ll accidentally crush this strange phone in his clumsy monkey hands when he turns it over and presses the home button. 9:15 a.m., February 18, 2024.

Right then. Okay, okay.

The lockscreen’s a picture of the Vegas strip, which is — weird. Definitely not his style. Maybe more Louis’. This makes him instantly suspicious because if anyone were to pull on him an elaborate practical joke, Louis’d be his first pick. He presses his thumb to the scan bed to test it.

The phone unlocks. Sort of. It opens to a second screen that prompts a password, and Harry did _not_ know double authentication was a thing. It seems like the kind of excessively paranoid security that would normally please him, only right now he’s annoyed. He types in his usual passcode. The screen stays locked. The lights of Vegas twinkle mockingly. He tries to think of a passcode Louis might pick. He tries Freddie’s birthday. Nope. The day they got signed to their first record label. Nada.

It’s around now that Harry realizes something else feels off, and it’s him. His body, to be more precise. His forearm clutching the phone is tanner than he remembers it being and there are — holy shit, new tattoos. Since waking up he hasn’t been wearing a stitch of clothing and he flings the covers off now, staring down the length of his naked body, the long gangly stretch of it making him pause. It’s changed. New tattoos, skinnier calves, a scar on his hip, no more baby fat. The skin on his legs looks worse than ever.

Harry is finally propelled into some sense of urgency. He lurches out of bed and hunts for the bathroom. He guesses correctly (well, only a few doors an ensuite bathroom could really be) and braces himself over the sink, staring at his face in the mirror.

It _is_ different. His face is hollower, his cheekbones more prominent. His hair’s cut very, very short, spare and no-nonsense. There’s tiny lines around his eyes. He looks — rangier, is the word Harry settles on, growing in panic, and then he realizes: older. 

If this is one of Louis’ practical jokes, clearly there’s some hallucinogenic effect involved. Mushrooms. Ayahuasca. Who the bloody hell knows. Something to trick his mind like this. Harry tries to push the rising bile of panic down. His first instinct is to ring security, only he can’t do that, can he, when he’s unable to get into his phone and he doesn’t know if this house has a panic button either.

No security and what if he’s not alone? Shit, Harry thinks, and starts rummaging through the bathroom drawers for anything he can use in self-defense. He ends up grabbing a pair of eyebrow tweezers, which makes him feel quite ridiculous, thank you very much, but if this isn’t Louis and is, in fact, a kidnapping and drugging, at least the tweezers could theoretically take out an eye. Harry could gouge someone’s eye out. Probably. If sufficiently motivated.

If it _is_ Louis, he decides, they’ll be waiting downstairs to take embarrassing photos, Harry will yell at him until his face turns red, and they’ll call it a day.

He emerges from the bathroom, white-knuckled and tweezer-armed, and slowly descends the carpeted stairs. It’s a lovely house, he thinks dispassionately. Looks a lot like his own, only it’s clearly not. None of the rooms are where they ought to be. Judging by the palm trees outside the windows, he’s probably still in California. 

In the kitchen the counters are dark, stony granite offsetting a bright red 50s replica oven. There’s bananas and nectarines nestled in an china bowl, and next to them is a plugged-in laptop. The fridge door’s covered in memos and copies of contracts, a forest of white paper save for a card pinned in with a Minnie Mouse magnet. He recognizes the card with a punch to his gut. Niall’d given it to him for his twenty-first birthday. _”To Hamberto Swisher-Fipper-Aisles, my favourite bandmate.”_

Harry turns his attention away from the card, with effort. He hasn’t seen it in ages, reckoned it might be lost. It hadn’t seemed precious at the time he was given it. He goes instead to the hibernating laptop, setting the tweezers down reluctantly to try and password-crack it. Apparently laptop security’s less important than phone security, because when he tries his usual, it works. The screen’s a picture of Holmes Chapel, sun rising, the sky a soft veiny blue. Looking at it makes him feel desperate in a way he doesn’t understand, like it’s his body’s reaction and not his.

The date on the right-hand corner of the screen is: February 18, 2024.

Harry does what any self-respecting person does when they wake up to what might be the future or might just be a massive, stress-related delusion: he googles himself. Squints at the first news pieces that come up. _Harry Styles rumoured to appear in next Marvel film_ and _Harry Styles working on new album hot off second world tour?_ and _HARRY STYLES SECRET MARRIED (AGAIN)._

He bravely clicks on his Wikipedia article, scrolls through it, and promptly develops chest pains. 

_Don’t freak out, don’t freak out, don’t fucking freak out,_ he tells himself, spots starting to appear behind his eyelids. Looking around the kitchen frantically he spies a landline phone. Hallelujah. His relief then plummets when he realizes he doesn’t actually know anyone’s numbers by heart, they’ve all been programmed into his mobile. He wants to hit something, he’s so frustrated, but then he remembers someone whose number he might be able to find easily enough. He goes back to the laptop, googles a name, and returns to the phone.

“You’ve reached the office of Dr. Nupoor Sengupta,” says an assistant. “How can I help you?”

“Hi,” Harry says, his voice croaking, “uh, is Dr. S in? This is — Harry Styles.”

“Hi Mr. Styles,” the assistant says smoothly, as if she receives anxious calls from celebrities every day. She likely does. He tries to remember her name, comes up with Jamie as a possible answer. “Dr. Sengupta is off on lunch right now. Can I take a message? If you’re looking to book an appointment, you can do that through me.”

“No, er,” Harry says. “Look, are you sure she’s not around? This is, like, an emergency.” His voice gets froggier. “Please.”

“I… let me check,” Jamie says. “Can I put you on hold?”

“Alright. Thanks.” He sinks to the floor. He leans his back against the counter, trying to moderate his breathing. He and the lads used to joke that if One Direction ever flopped they should go into the hold music business, record catchy tunes that’re them singing, _You’re on hold. Wanker. You’re on hold. Wanker. You’ll be on hold forever. You sad sod._ He laughs hoarsely at the memory. 

“Hi, Harry?” Dr. Sengupta says after a minute or so. “This is a surprise. I haven’t heard from you in years.”

“We had a session last week,” Harry says. “I talked to you about how when I was kid I believed in ghosts and wanted to be, um, a ghost hunter when I grew up. I had a notebook log and I would go into the garden looking for ghost clues, and—” his throat closes up, “—this was last week?”

A pause. 

“Harry,” she says slowly, “you don’t sound alright. Are you alone?”

“Yeah, I am,” he says. “Then at least tell me what year it is. Cos all the calendars in this house are saying it’s 2024, and that can’t be — I mean, it’s _not_.”

“Today is February 18, 2024,” Dr. Sengupta says. “It sounds to me like you might be having some difficulty with your memories. Are you able to get to a hospital? I’m afraid I don’t have your current address on file, or I would call a taxi for you. Harry, you might need medical attention and—”

He hangs up.

Maybe she’s right and he does need medical attention, but at the same time he’s afraid. Of sounding mad. Of word getting out. Of not being careful. He sits on the chilly kitchen floor for several minutes before forcing down the oversized ball in his throat and crawling to the laptop. He opens up his email. At least he has his contacts stored here. No phone numbers attached, though, because that would be actually useful. He finds his mum and sends her an email. _Can you call my landline as soon as you get this? Landline, not my mobile._

He pours himself a glass of water while he waits. If nothing else, in moments of personal crisis, stay hydrated. His limbs feel heavy and uncertain as he searches for a glass, his sense of balance slightly off. 

His landline rings twenty minutes later, and he answers with shaking hands. “Mum?” 

“What’s wrong?” she asks. “I’ve not heard from you in _ages_.” There’s a note of censure in her voice. Harry wonders if he may, in fact, be a ghost.

“Mum, what’s today’s date?” 

“Oh, you know I can never remember, let me check.” He can hear her move around. “It’s February 18th. Evening where I am, but morning where you are.”

“What year?”

She sounds confused. “2024.” A pause, just like with Dr. Sengupta. “What’s the matter? You sound… not yourself.”

“I think,” Harry says wildly, “maybe I’m not.” He thinks of telling her the truth, but then he thinks of his mum being sweetly baffled by her son’s ravings, turning to Robin helplessly as Harry goes increasingly nutters, and he doesn’t. He blurts out, “But I’m fine! Soz, reckon I’m just overtired or summat. Talk to you later, alright? I’m fine!” He hangs up while she’s sputtering, and isn’t that deja vu. Harry’s a dismal son.

He kneads his temples to try and ward off the headache that’s knocking around inside his skull. Worst sort of houseguest, the kind that doesn't know when the jig is up. He looks down at himself and barks out a laugh. It finally occurs to him to put on some clothes.

 

:::

 

He finds a set of keys by the front door. After jamming each of them into the keyhole, he determines that one of them locks the house. Hooray. Another’s a car key, and helpfully there’s his Benz sitting in the driveway. He’s not driven it in a while when he has newer, smoother-handling cars for daily use, but the familiarity of it (his car, his scruff marks) makes his knees weak. 

He’s not starkers anymore, but it’s not like he’s put a lot of thought into what he’s wearing; he simply shrugged on whatever was crumpled on the ground. He regrets this decision slightly, as he gets behind the wheel, because what he found was a flowy silk kimono over board shorts and sandals that makes him look like someone’s dotty aunt. With his curls a mess and his face stuck in permanent wide-eyed horror, he hopes no one pulls him over.

He’s still in L.A. The street signs confirm as much. The neighbourhood he doesn’t quite know, except that it resembles his old one; one of those exclusive tall-gates communities where people like Harry throw down their money after they get famous. Thankfully there’s a sat nav installed in his car (of course there’s a sat nav, Harry could get lost in a one-room schoolhouse). He punches in Niall’s L.A. address, which he found in his contacts, and drives.

The bloke who answers Niall’s door is in his forties, shirtless and paunchy, wet-haired from the pool, and most definitely not Niall. He looks, Harry decides, like a banker, like he spends a lot of his day yelling at people on Blackberries. If anyone still uses a Blackberry in 2024.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

Harry’s first instinct is to flounder, but there’s the part of him that still exists, the part that’s strode onstage to thousands of waiting fans even when he thought he’d be sick with nerves. He pulls himself up as tall as he can, which is considerably taller than this bloke, and says, “Excuse me, I’m looking for Niall Horan. This is his house. _Was_ his house?” he hazards a guess.

“Horan. Boy band twig. Looks like he’s twelve?” the bloke says, amused, and Harry dislikes him already. “Sold the place to me. A year ago, about.”

“You don’t happen to have a forwarding address, do you?”

“Sorry,” the bloke says, not sounding very sorry at all. He squints at Harry. “You one of his bandmates? Hey, you are, aren’t you. The really famous one.”

Harry shrugs. The kimono slides off one shoulder.

“Don’t think Horan lives in the country anymore, if that helps,” the bloke continues. “Think he fucked off to Australia or something.”

Australia? Harry’s confusion skyrockets, but he manages to grunt out a brief thanks before heading back to his car. He rests his forehead on the steering wheel, more unnerved by the thought of Niall no longer being at arm’s length than he’d expected. It’s not like he’s actually _been_ to Niall’s L.A house in years, but the knowledge that it was there, that he _could_ — it meant a lot, he’s only realizing that now. 

He drives to Jeff’s and grinds his teeth while he waits at the gate, because if Jeff doesn’t live here, that’s it, he’s going to scream and make a scene. But Jeff answers the door with a funny look on his face. “Harry,” he says. “Uh, this is kind of—” 

“Unexpected?” Harry finishes for him. “Let me guess. You, like everyone else on this planet, hasn’t heard from me in ages.”

“What?” Jeff asks. “I talked to you on the phone yesterday.”

“Thank god,” Harry says, and pushes past him inside. “Jeff my friend, you’re not gonna believe this but I swear I’m not nutters. I’m just — a time traveler, I guess? I dunno, all of this is freaking me out.”

“Slow down, slow down.” Jeff follows. “You’re a fucking _what_ now?”

Harry stops and faces him. “It’s 2024, yeah?”

“Yeah…”

“Not for me,” Harry says. “When I went to sleep, it was bloody 2019. I dunno if this is Fuck With Harry’s Head Day and you’re all in on this fun, and you’ve gone round and changed all the calendars and bribed my mum and my therapist. But it’s—” he hisses, “ _not_ funny. So now I’m, like, faced with three horrible possibilities. Either my friends are complete twats who don’t like me very much, or I’m _actually_ mental, or—”

“Or?” Jeff prompts.

“—I’m a fucking time traveler!” Harry throws up his hands. “Spin the wheel, Jeff, throw the dice, tell me which one it is!”

“Okay, look,” Jeff says, “we haven’t been that close in a while—”

“You said you talked to me yesterday!” 

“As your manager, sure, I’m still your manager, and a fucking great one too.” Jeff manages a smile. “It’s been a while since you’ve brought anything, uh, personal to me, that’s all. But I’ve been talking to Nick and—”

“You been talking to Grimmy?” Harry interrupts. 

“—and we both think you’ve been off your game lately. Since, well — November.” Jeff’s voice gentles out, like he’s trying to lure a lamb into a barn. “Maybe we should call someone. Hey, what about Dr. Sengupta? Nick says you stopped going to your sessions, but you really liked her. She can help.”

“So you think I’m going mad,” Harry says flatly. “Well, maybe I am.”

“Harry,” Jeff says, “I’m not sure _what’s_ going on with you.”

“I—” Harry casts about inside himself, thinks of the first place he drove to. “I wanna talk to Niall.” Niall’s so sensible, he’ll listen to Harry for sure. And then maybe Harry can also ask about that thing he read on his Wikipedia page that stopped his heart.

Jeff coughs. “You _want_ to — Niall _Horan_?”

“What, do I hang out with a hundred other Nialls now?” Harry asks irritably. “Got meself a Niall gang?” 

“Don’t think talking to your ex-husband right now is gonna be much help,” Jeff says, and so that part of the wiki _was_ true. Harry doesn’t let himself react. Plenty of time to do that later. Coming to Jeff is proving to be a huge disappointment. Harry’s not sure what he’d thought, but he’d _hoped_ that as one of his closest friends Jeff would take him seriously.

He fishes his mobile from his pocket and holds it out. “Can you get this cracked for me? I don’t remember the passcode.”

“H,” Jeff says, “maybe we should call 911. I’m gonna—” he gestures.

“No,” Harry says, “don’t.” He rubs the creases in his forehead. If he survives today, he’s going to have permanent worry wrinkles. “I’ll check myself in. Later. I’m not ready yet.” He dangles the phone again. “Get it cracked, yes or no? Tried everything I could think of. Birthdays, important dates, the last four digits of old phone numbers. Zilch.”

“Fine. I’ll take it to a guy to crack it.” Jeff accepts the phone. “If you’re not going to the hospital, maybe you should stay here for a while. Glenne’d be happy to see you again.” His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “She can make quinoa salad.”

God, do people really think Harry’s so mentally weak to quinoa that he’ll ignore his entire world upending? It’s concerning, to say the least. Harry hates the way Jeff’s treating him with kid gloves, like he’s afraid Harry’ll start gnawing at the walls, but the thought of being near at least one thing that’s a known quantity is comforting. “Okay,” he says. “Can I borrow your iPad?”

“Mi casa es su casa,” says Jeff. _You ranting time-traveling lunatic_ , he kindly does not say. 

Harry logs into his Twitter and starts scrolling through his timeline, but 2024 quickly becomes information overload and his headache grows into something tangled and thorny, barbed wire in the soft mush of his brain. Instead he starts to pick through the select Twitters of people he knows, and tries not to stare agog every time he sees something surprising. Liam and Perrie’s three children _(three)_ , Louis running his own label, Nick married with a toddler _(Nick has kids too, what the fuck)_.

“Jeff,” he calls out, “I don’t got any kids, do I?”

“Not that I know of,” is the reply. “Too smart for that. Wrap it before you tap it.”

Niall’s Twitter is the emptiest, the last tweet in May 2023, thanking a fan for her support. There’s a feeling in Harry’s stomach like a cold, soggy biscuit. He goes to Zayn’s timeline instead, looks through tweets about Zayn heading back to the studio, about his collabs, about him fanboying over artists he really respects. There’s a cheerful ease to the way Zayn tweets that Harry has trouble slotting with the Zayn he knows, 2019 Zayn who’s sort of guarded and on edge a lot of the time, getting into Twitter fights over nothing. 

Maybe it’s because, in 2019, Zayn’s the only person it feels like he’s building a relationship with, patching things back together instead of watching it topple, that makes him do what he does next. Which is to DM Zayn with a _hey_ and a _do you believe in time travel, mate_

It doesn’t really matter if Zayn blocks him, Harry thinks. Doesn’t seem like 2024 Harry has many friends to begin with.

He looks at his own timeline, and it’s, well, no different than what Harry’s timeline is like in 2019. His tweets are clean, sparse, and deliberately formal, rarely presented with any context, not very emotive. He’s usually quite proud of it, how he manages to give his fans what they want whilst keeping his heart for himself, except would it hurt 2024-him to actually tweet about something that’s going on in his life.

There’s a link to his website in his profile. At first he’s put off by the banner of his brooding face, which is really, er, quite intense. Harry’s got good smoulder for the cameras, used to give tips to the other lads like _think about fried chicken and how much you want it_ , but this is less “dark and hungry” and more “I haven’t felt the touch of another human being in years and now I’m off to wrestle a bear.”

Embarrassingly intense photo aside, on the website he finds confirmation of the career stuff he’d seen in his Wikipedia article. That between 2019 and 2024 he released a second studio album, dabbled in fashion collabs, published a poetry chapbook, directed his own music video, and had parts in multiple films and TV shows, including (and this brightens him for the first time all day), a BAFTA nod. It’s the kind of solo career he’s been working so relentlessly for, accomplished and eclectic and hyphenate, a soupy jambalaya of everything he’s interested in. Harry Styles has arrived.

But that’s not the biggest surprise he gets, oh no. That comes later, when he’s munching intently on Glenne’s quinoa salad, and there’s a DM from Zayn sitting in his inbox that says, _You’re a time jumper too, huh?_

 

:::

 

@Harry_Styles: _you’re shitting me_

@zaynmalik: _Could ask the same of ya mate. you’re not shitting ME rite?_

@Harry_Styles: _so if i were to tell you that I went to bed in 2019 and woke up in 2024, this wouldn’t freak you out?_

@zaynmalik: _Try not to let a lot of shit freak me out anymore bro_

@Harry_Styles: _yeah but_

@zaynmalik: _sides, it’s happened to me too . Jan 2015 one day, gettin ready to go on tour with you lads. Jan 2017 the next._

@Harry_Styles: _Jesus_

@Harry_Styles: _i mean i can’t get my head around it_

@Harry_Styles: _you jumped into the future?_

@Harry_Styles: _did you ever… get back?_

@zaynmalik: _Yah I did . You can come visit me if ya want. Ill tell you about it._

 

:::

 

He lies and tells Jeff he’s flying to his mum’s for a few days. While this is not as well-received as Harry going to the hospital for head trauma would be, Jeff accepts it as a second best. Harry gives him his mum’s address to ship the phone to once it’s cracked. He buys a plane ticket to London and goes home to pack.

Packing when he doesn’t recognize half the stuff in his house is something of a harried (ha) production, but he figures he can simply buy anything he forgets. The PIN to his credit card’s the name as it used to be, so he doesn’t have to worry about money. He has the foresight to remember what February in London will be like, and tucks a Raf Simons jumper into his carry-on while he uses the landline to order a driver for the airport.

His flight’s not for another five hours, but the thought of sitting around his house that isn’t really his house makes him think he’d go mental for real. He’d rather curl up in an airport lounge with his sunglasses on and hired security to afford him some privacy. It says something that the private lounge at LAX is more familiar a surrounding than future-Harry’s house. 

Here he is once more: on a plane, crossing the ocean stiff-limbed in his seat, clutching a pillow, poorly shaven, eyes smudged like dirty-water paint, a proper mess. 

Zayn’s sent a driver for him, and as Harry takes his usual place in the backseat of the SUV, he thinks of how many years of his life can be measured by time spent in other people’s cars, listening to other people’s favourite radio stations. “No, s’fine, keep it,” he says when the driver guiltily offers to change the station. 

He warms up his fingers by pressing them to the heat of his mouth, his long exhale. Watches the suburbs of London through tinted windows, shapes cast dark and slightly askew, like looking at everything through a pool. He thinks of being nine years old and his mum’s reading Lord of the Rings to him, and they get to the part about Galadriel’s mirror. Things that were, things that are, things that have yet to be. 

Zayn lives in Woldingham in this future, which, with its golf courses, prim shrubbery, and good ol’ boys, is nowhere near the list of suburbs he’d imagine Zayn “I’ve a leather jacket and a penchant for illegal graffiti” Malik picking. But eureka, the mystery is solved when a woman in a peacock print hijab answers the door and says, a little shyly, a little wryly, “Hiya Harry, come on in.”

“Hullo,” Harry says, equally discomfited.

“Z said you might not remember,” the woman says. “Not sure how much stock I put into this whole time travel thing, but hey,” she shrugs. “It’s not like I didn’t know before I married him.” She extends a hand. “I’m Fikriyya.”

“Harry.”

“No shit,” she says, and calls over her shoulder. “Zayn! Harry’s here!”

Zayn pops his head from around the corner. “Hey man, come on in. Just playing blocks with Hiba here.”

So you’ve gone and had kids too, Harry wants to say when he turns the corner and sees Zayn cross-legged in the den with a crawling baby. Harry likes kids but is sort of hopeless at pinpointing ages. Baby, his mind supplies helpfully and leaves it at that. 

“Hiba, Harry,” Zayn drawls. “Harry, Hiba. Now that everyone’s met each other, or I guess, re-met each other, you wanna a cuppa?”

“I’d kill for a cuppa,” Harry says. 

“You make it,” Fikriyya tells Zayn. “I’ve gotta get back to work.” She waves at Harry. “Nice to see you. Again. For the first time. Any and all of the above.” 

Harry watches her go. “What does she do?” he asks politely, watching Zayn pick up Hiba under one arm and stroll to the kitchen. “I always thought you’d end up with, y’know,” he waves his hand, “a leggy supermodel type.”

“Love how the first thing you do as my guest is insult my wife,” Zayn says. 

“Shit. Ah. Soz—” he winces at Hiba, who stares at him with dark eyes. “Baby present, baby present, my bad.” Zayn laughs silently at him. “Look,” Harry whinges, “I’ve lot to process, so cut me some slack. Didn’t mean no insult.”

“Sure, mate, I knew that,” Zayn says, busying himself with boiling water. He makes it look easy with a baby stuck on his hip. “You wanna hold her?”

“Erm,” says Harry, “okay.” He opens his arms and braces Hiba’s weight. She’s soft and smells like formula. Harry is faintly terrified. He’d held Freddie as a baby so it’s not like he’s got zero experience in this, but these are 2024-Harry’s arms, so they might as well be a stranger’s. 

“You’ve got her,” Zayn says, grinning again. He looks calm and collected and put together, even with dried food stains on his shirt. Older, yeah, more heft to his shoulders, but a nice departure from the antsy twig Harry once knew and loved. Five years looks good on him. “Fiks does graphic novels, by the way. Memoir-ish type stuff, for kids. Kinda like Raina Telgemeier, if you know who that is.” Harry doesn’t. “She got nominated for an Eisner last year.” 

“What’s that?”

“An award they give you when you write really tight comics,” Zayn says with a straight face. Harry rolls his eyes while Hiba burps. “So yeah, man, if you’re from 2019, then spoiler alert.” He opens a cupboard and pulls out two mugs. “This is where I ended up. Like everyone else. Married, kids, boring, doing alright. Now-you hates that about me.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say to that. Harry’s in too much a state of confusion about himself to judge anyone else. 

“It’s February 19, 2024,” he says slowly.

“Yeah.”

“That’s five years from 2019.”

“Good math, bro.”

“That means I’m—” his eyes widen, “—thirty. Jesus Christ.” 

“You gonna faint, princess?” Zayn asks.

“I — sod off, there’s no fainting involved,” Harry says, but he does lower himself, bow-legged, on the closest chair, mindful not to drop Hiba. “Jesus Christ,” he repeats, jetlag hitting him all at once like the inside of his head’s an apple that’s been cored. “What’s going on?”

“Dunno the science behind it,” Zayn says, leaning against the counter. “It only happened to me the once, but once was enough, yeah?” He looks dreamy, remembering it. “I was still with the band then, but when I jumped to the future, I saw everything else I could have.” He fiddles with the mugs. “Solo career, creative freedom, calling my own shots. I saw what was possible.”

Harry tries to think back to January 2015 and doesn’t remember anything from that time, least of all what Zayn was up to. He only knows that two months later, Zayn quit.

(“You don’t remember,” Liam once said, “stuff you don’t think is important to you.”

“Isn’t everyone like that, though.”)

“So what happened?” Harry asks. “You jumped to 2017, dicked around, and then you said you jumped back?” He’s eager about this part. “How’d you get back? How do _I_ get back? I mean, don’t get me wrong, this future don’t seem so bad. My career is _sick_ , but, like, it’s no good if I don’t remember actually doing any of these things and—” 

Zayn cuts off his meandering thought process. “Dunno how I jumped back.” He shrugs. “It just happened, like. Went to bed one night with Gigi. Woke up and I was in 2015 again.”

“Bullshit,” Harry says, while Hiba squirms in his arms, looking like she’s ready to cry. “ _Something_ must’ve happened.”

“Nothing happened,” Zayn says. “Telling ya the truth, fingers crossed. I’ve tried to figure out the trigger for years, but I got nothing. It was like a freak storm or summat. Blew into my life, blew out.”

“This ain’t the weather channel.” Harry has to bite down on a curse for the sake of babies in the audience. “It’s f— nghh _time travel_.”

“That’s what makes it so mysterious, though,” Zayn says, sounding like he’s at peace with the whole thing, and maybe Harry isn’t a fan of this older, calmer, smugger Zayn after all. Poor Hiba. It’s not her fault her dad’s such an insufferable git. He hands her back to Zayn, and they’re both silent as they wait for the kettle to start hissing. Hiba starts gnawing on Zayn’s fingers.

“Ow, girl,” Zayn murmurs. “Now that you got teeth, that smarts.” To Harry he says, “If you want a lie-down on the sofa, I can bring your tea over. You look like you’re gonna pass out.”

Harry takes Zayn up on that offer. Head on the sofa’s armrest and socked feet dangling off the other end, he interrogates the ceiling. “Why is this happening to me? Did I wrong someone? Did I wrong a _time witch_? No, don’t laugh. This whole shit is ridiculous. I’m ready to believe anything at this point. Or maybe,” he blinks, “if I go to sleep right here, I’ll wake up and none of this will have happened.”

Zayn snorts from the kitchen as the kettle begins to shriek. “You can try.”

 

:::

 

He does fall asleep on the sofa. 

When he wakes up, daylight’s shedding its weight into dusk and Zayn’s reading comics in the armchair across from him. He’s wearing glasses. “Still 2024,” he says, flipping a page.

“Bollocks,” says Harry.

“Sorry,” Zayn says. “When I jumped, I stayed for two months, so if you’re anything like me, you’re gonna be stuck here for a while.” He frowns. “Not _here_ here. I don’t really need to be tripping over Harry fucking Styles in my house. Get a hotel room or summat.”

“Ugh.” Harry tries to swipe the sleep crud from his eyes. “In my time of need. You’re an absolute fuckhead, you know that?”

“See, that don’t hurt me cos I’m actually one of your best mates in 2024,” Zayn says. “Me and Grimshaw. We’re, like, your entire social circle, and you keep grumbling about how you wanna move back to London cos you’re sick of your fake L.A crew.”

Harry scoffs. “I have more than two real friends.”

Zayn hums.

“Tommo and Payno—”

“Ehhhh,” Zayn says, “not so much these days.”

“Jeff,” Harry argues, but then remembers what a surprised Jeff had said at the door, that Harry’d not brought anything personal to him in a while. “Fine, whatever,” Harry says, pissy. “‘m too knackered to fight about this. What’re we doing for dinner?”

“Who says you’re invited for dinner,” Zayn mutters, but he’s pulling out his phone and raising his voice. “Fiks! What’d you want to eat?”

“I dunno, anything!” comes the reply down the hall. Footsteps follow and Fikriyya enters the den, looking plenty tired herself. “Could go for pizza, maybe. That place that does halal.”

“Do they even deliver?” Zayn wonders.

“Flirt with them a little,” she tosses back. “ _Make_ them deliver.” She kicks at Harry’s legs a bit. “Hey time traveler, can you maybe take off your boots and not get dirt over this sofa made by, I dunno, blind Hungarian orphans? Thanks.”

Zayn squints at the sofa. “Think it’s IKEA, actually.”

Fikriyya widens her eyes. “ _No_. You mean it was all a lie? You mean I gold-dug you for _nothing_?” She grabs Zayn into a headlock and pats his cheeks. “You agree with me, right, Haz? His face is kinda embarrassing to look at, and it’s not like he’s a very good singer either, so yeah. I was after his money. Dolla dolla bills.”

Zayn bites her fingers and licks them. “Get a room,” Harry says.

“You’re _in_ our room,” Fikriyya retorts.

“Nobody appreciates me,” Harry bemoans.

“Actually,” Fikriyya muses, “if any of us is a gold digger in this room, isn’t it Harry? Cos don’t we all agree that he gold-dug Niall?” Zayn slaps a hand over her mouth, looking panicked. “Was I not supposed to mention that?” she asks sweetly.

“Yeah,” Harry says, “about that.”

“Look, 2019-Harry’s gotta have a ton of questions,” Zayn says. “I’m, like, not prepared to tackle his deep and troubled emotional issues, babe. Not until after pizza.”

Harry, who’s not sure he’s ready to hear about his deep and troubled emotional issues until after pizza, is alright with this. He tucks Niall’s name back into the soft palate of his mouth where his tongue licks at a long-ago cut. Later, he thinks. Zayn goes off to order the pizza while Fikriyya checks on Hiba. Harry, knowing that he doesn’t want to be alone, not now, follows her. Hiba’s standing up in her crib. She’s sniffling and trying to bat at a wooden mobile, handpainted blue and silver with foxes and genies and elves.

Fikriyya notices Harry eyeing it. “Does it look familiar?” 

It doesn’t. But then — he catches himself, how did he know it was handpainted? 

“You bought it for her,” Fikriyya says. “Or your assistant did. But it was your gift when she was born.” She lifts Hiba from the crib, and Hiba starts crying. “Shhh, shhh,” she murmurs. More loudly: “Frankly I rather you’d contributed to her uni fund instead.” Harry’s face falls. “I’m shitting you, Styles,” she laughs. “Can’t help it. Out of all Zayn’s pop star friends, I like messing with you the most. Now get outta here. I’ve got a baby to breastfeed.”

“Right then,” Harry says, and beats it. 

When the pizza arrives, Fikriyya emerges from Hiba’s room, tucking a wisp of hair into her hijab. “Food’s here,” Zayn says without ceremony, and Harry watches as the two of them drop to the floor in the den and tuck into the pizza like wild children. Harry joins them, gets cheese on his wrist, casts about for a napkin, and then gives up. Zayn and Fikriyya eat like they’ve never had food before.

“I still have questions,” Harry says after his fourth slice of pizza. He pats his pizza belly gingerly. His poor body. He’ll have to go to the gym extra long for this.

“Yeah,” Zayn sighs. “I’m gonna need something stronger.”

Stronger, as it turns out, means rolling blunts in the basement. For all that this is a multimillion pound Woldingham house, the basement looks like the insides of a lot of tour buses Harry’s been on: mismatched couches, undone laundry, video games cases piled on top of each other like plates. Zayn takes the first hit, closes his eyes, and offers the joint to Harry. Harry smokes it, sweet-damp and familiar, like sweat on a forest walk.

“What more do you wanna know?” Zayn says. “I’m your genie in a bottle, baby. I know your whole future.” He laughs.

Harry picks at something behind his teeth. He’s not sure there’s actually anything there. He looks up at the ceiling, where they can hear Fikriyya rustling about, singing.

“Are you judging me?” Zayn asks, eyes lidded. “Cos I’ve seen you so high on drugs you’ve—” He cuts himself off and shakes his head. “Fiks smokes up too. Sometimes.”

“Kinda surprised.”

“What, since she’s a hijabi?” Harry passes the joint back to Zayn, who hollows his cheeks as he breathes in. “Fiks ain’t no saint. We’re great for each other because we’re both shit people. Shit people trying to raise a good daughter.” 

“How’d you meet?” Harry asks. He raises his eyebrows when Zayn looks at him. “Don’t shoot me. I’m curious.”

Zayn snorts. “Our parents, believe it or not. One day, couple months after I broke up with Gigi—”

“Not through text?” Harry says because he can’t help it.

“ _No_ , jeez, I grew out of that,” Zayn says, and Harry spares a thought for poor Perrie. “Don’t be a prick.”

“Okay. Carry on.”

“After the breakup, I went home for Eid and my mum had invited Fiks’ family over.” Zayn runs his hands through his hair. “It was so obviously a setup. I wasn’t fucking impressed. But we started talking about comics and how she was getting a fine arts degree, and… I liked her.” He spits it out like a confession, but his face is bright, and Harry thinks of Liam and Perrie getting married, the way they’d looked at each other, like a pair of stunned birds. “Anyway, we kept in touch after that. We were friends for a couple of years until we finally figured our shit out.”

“Was I there?” Harry wonders. “At your wedding?”

“Yeah,” Zayn says, “you were there.”

“What about—”

“No, just you.”

Harry falls into silence. “Look,” says Zayn, “I don’t know how much help I’m gonna be. Like I said, just cos I’ve time-jumped before doesn’t mean I know anything about _how_ or _why_.”

“Why don’t you tell me everything you do know,” Harry says slowly, smoke in his mouth. “We’ll see what’s the same and what’s different. You jumped from 2015 to uh—”

“2017,” Zayn finishes. “Two years.”

“I jumped 2019 to 2024. Five years.” Harry looks at the ceiling again. “The last thing I remember was, I went to bed after a run. I was so tired. ‘m always so tired these days. Those days. Whatever. Hey, maybe that’s a clue.”

“I was tired,” Zayn says thoughtfully. “January 2015. We were doing rehearsals for On the Road Again. I hated all of it, then.”

Never let people see that they’ve hurt you, Harry thinks. He takes another hit of the joint. It calms him. “So you went to sleep one night and—”

“Nah,” Zayn interrupts. “I jumped in the middle of rehearsal.”

Harry hesitates.

“I was talking to you, actually,” Zayn says. “Hey, pass it over,” he adds, and Harry does. “Yeah,” Zayn says, exhaling. “Liam and Niall were goofing off on the stage, and Louis was — I dunno, hitting on one of the sound techs. It was you and me left, I was anxious and miserable, you were texting a girl, and you turned to me and said, _I’m bored, wanna sneak out_. And I said, _not enough time_ , and boom. I was in 2017.”

“Wait,” Harry says, “wait, wait, wait. You jumped _in the middle of talking to me_?”

“Yep.”

“I don’t remember this at all. Having this conversation.”

“Don’t know why you would, mate,” Zayn says. “It was a boring conversation. Think you were just trying to cheer me up, and I didn’t want to be cheered up.”

Harry doesn’t remember this conversation, but he does remember the beginning of 2015, the start of their tour. It’d been the worst sort of helplessness, watching a friend become a stranger again. He takes the blunt back from Zayn and rolls it between his fingers. “Where’d you jump to?” he finally asks.

“New York,” Zayn replies. “A meeting with my manager. Scared him proper, the way I was acting, all ranting and raving.” He smiles at the memory. “Didn’t know what he was talking about. Solo career? Upcoming interview with Ellen DeGeneres? Thought you lads were pulling one over me.”

“Know that feeling,” Harry mutters. 

“Then my manager drove me to my flat,” Zayn says, “and Gigi was there, and fuck — it was a mess. I was so scared. Bug-eyed and shouting. Tried to call Perrie but ‘course, that didn’t work so well. They took me to the hospital. I went through psych tests.” Harry swallows. “But then I figured my best bet was to fake it. Pretend I was having a stress breakdown. Started acting normal again. Normal for 2017-Zayn. It was hard, trying to figure out what that meant. Who he was.”

“You said you were in the future for two months.”

“That first month was a total wash,” Zayn says dismissively. “So that’s my first bit of advice. Skip the hospital, skip the tests, ‘s a waste of time when you know you’re not insane.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Jeff and — my therapist, they wanted to.”

“I mean, it’s not a _bad_ instinct. It’s just not the right one,” says Zayn. 

“And you said that you were — in bed with Gigi when you jumped back, two months later?”

“Not _in bed_ in bed, if that’s what you’re thinking, bro.” Zayn’s voice is getting heavy and sticky now, dulled by the weed. “We were in our pyjamas, on our phones. It was raining outside. Dunno if that’s important. I turned to her and was gonna say something about turning the light off, and then I jumped. Back to January 2015. Jumped right back to talking to you.” 

“Oh.” Harry frowns. “And I really didn’t notice?”

“You never notice, Harry,” Zayn says. 

He chooses to ignore that. “Then you quit the band.”

“Not right away,” Zayn says. “Stuck it out for two more months. But I couldn’t stay, not after what I’d seen.”

“But then—” Harry works through his thoughts, his head starting to throb, and he’s not sure if it’s the weed, the confusion, or both. “After that. When you jumped back to 2015, you must’ve gone through 2017 again. Properly. Non-time-travel style. Didn’t you?” Zayn nods. “So was the future you saw honestly the future? Did everything happen the same?”

“Ugh, see, this time paradox shit is what messes me up,” Zayn says. “And no, 2017 the second time around wasn’t _exactly_ the same. But it was — really close. I made a lot of the same decisions, I think, because I wanted that future to happen. But—”

“What?” Harry demands.

“I still wonder. Why 2017?”

“What’d you mean? You saw your glorious solo career, didn’t you?” He doesn’t mean for there to be so much bite in it.

Zayn’s too out of it to notice. “But I could’ve seen my solo career if I jumped to 2018, or 2019, you know what I’m saying?” Zayn’s eyelids are so heavy, they’re pillows on his face. “You want to think of time travel as, like, meaningful. Seeing your most important future. And the solo stuff _was_ huge, don’t get me wrong. But I didn’t marry Gigi, did I? Why didn’t I jump to _this_ future?” He gestures. “I like this one loads better.”

“I don’t know, man.” Harry groans. “I thought talking to you would explain everything. Instead I’m even more confused.”

“Told ya,” Zayn hums. “Mysterious forces.”

“Fuck,” Harry says to the ceiling.

“Worked out okay, though,” Zayn says. “So don’t panic about it too much, yeah? You’ll jump back. Probably.”

“ _Probably_?” Harry screeches. “You know what? No, forget it. There must’ve been a trigger. We’re just not seeing it. Let’s go back. The day you jumped, the day you jumped back. I wanna hear everything.”

 

:::

 

Contrary to what Zayn says, he doesn’t really chuck Harry out of his house. “I want to, but when I look at your face, argh. You’re even more helpless than Hiba.”

“I’m gonna stay here forever,” Harry says out loud. “Move into your attic. Eat all your tikka masala.”

He stays three days and spends most of it babysitting Hiba. He learns how to hold a baby with proper neck support (firmly but not too firmly). He learns how to change a diaper (very quickly). He puts Hiba in her playpen with her favourite soft bunny and sings to her All the Single Ladies, except instead of single ladies he swaps in little babies and dances around the pen like he’s her high priest about to make an offering. It’s nice. It doesn’t feel real.

Zayn is extremely skeptical. “I don’t trust Harry. He’ll get distracted by his own reflection and drop Hiba into the rubbish.”

“I need,” Fikriyya grits her teeth, “to get out of the house for once. And either you’re coming with me or you’re not.”

“I’ll come with you.” Zayn rolls his eyes.

“So kind,” Fikriyya says.

This is how Harry spends the first few evenings of his new future: eating box lasagna by himself with a baby monitor on his lap. When the doorbell rings, the courier waiting on the steps clearly tries very hard not to gawk at him. “Sign, please,” he says, and Harry does. He takes his package inside and rips it open with a pair of kitchen scissors. It’s his phone.

He unlocks it. This time, it works, and with a sense of dread that bruises the floor of his stomach, he sifts through all of his messages. Two hours later, Zayn and Fikriyya return, and Harry’s very quiet. He brushes off their questions. “I’m going to bed,” he says. “Jeff’s got me in the studio with Ellie tomorrow. Bumped up the date since I’m in the UK anyway. Just found out.”

“Hey, that’s brilliant,” Fikriyya says, but he’s already climbing the steps to the guest room.

He takes a car into London the next morning. Not that he should’ve gone. He’s a wreck in the studio, can’t keep up with anything they’re working on. He botches his part of the track because he’s never seen it before, even though, he’s informed coldly by one of the producers, they’ve been sending him bits and hooks for at least a month. Then people keep coming up and talking to him as if he’s supposed to know them, and he tries his best to pretend, only no one’s very convinced. The whole time he’s awkward and ungainly, second-guessing himself, knocking over equipment in his thirty-year-old body and lapsing into uncertain pauses trying to be this Harry Styles, a Harry Styles he doesn’t know.

Ellie, the one person he does know, doesn’t seem inclined to help him. Which throws him off. They’re not close friends or anything, but they’re _friendly_ , last he checked when she let him take a swig of her water bottle at Coachella. But that was five years ago, he supposes. When he tries to chat with Ellie, reeling for topics that won’t make him sound idiotic, she doesn’t bother hiding her disinterest.

“Or not,” Harry says snippishly. “We don’t have to talk. We can eyeball each other in total silence whilst singing about how hot we are for each other in this song.”

“Look,” Ellie says, “Niall’s my friend.”

Harry’s hands stop from where he’s been trying to twist open a bottle of kombucha.

“And he’d want me to tell you: get your shit together, you’re embarrassing yourself today.” She turns back to her mic. “Can we take it from the top? One more time.”

Harry’s voice sounds different when he listens to it after. Better, perhaps, an easy snarl of a sound that doesn’t reveal anything of the frustration it took to record it. Ellie leaves with her guitar and entourage, and Harry slinks out of the studio with his hands in his ankle duster pockets, squinting at the row of black cars lined up outside to figure out which one’s his. February snow clumps the curb, city-soot-grey and slushy.

His throat’s dry; he wants a drink. Wants it with a keenness that he’s not sure he’s ever felt before, a viciousness that makes his hands ache.

Two months of this, he thinks. Maybe.

He’ll do better next time. Pretending to be this future-Harry. He has his phone cracked, he has his entire history that he can research for cues. After all, it’s only acting.

That night he crawls around on the carpet with Hiba, snatching her up and acting as if he’ll eat her. In the kitchen he can hear Zayn and Fikriyya talking about Zayn’s upcoming tour. _You two ought to come with_ , Zayn says casually, and Harry hears Fikriyya’s cross reply. _Be sensible_.

Harry dreams that night of being a fish. A fish in one of those hundred-fish schools that move and swerve in the water like an arrowhead. Then he’s swimming up to a restaurant table where Niall’s waiting, and Niall looks up from his phone and frowns. _Didn’t think you’d actually show up_ , Niall says, and he’s older too, stubble-bristly and wiry, chambray shirt tucked into a soft cream jumper.

Harry wakes with his mouth drier than smoke and his stomach empty. Hadn’t felt much like eating after his day with Ellie, but he feels it now. Slipping into the kitchen he pours himself a bowl of Zayn’s favourite sugary cereal. The milk is cold on his teeth as he hunches over the counter with his phone.

Upstairs he can hear Hiba start to cry. A minute later the sound of someone opening a door and shuffling out. Hiba’s crying stops. Harry checks his email.

Zayn comes downstairs to find Harry still studying the cold glow of his phone, hobbling on one foot so he can use the other to scratch his dry, itchy calves. “Find out anything interesting about yourself?” Zayn asks hoarsely. He looks exhausted, and Harry has the sense, for the first time, that it isn’t only Harry’s life that’s grown too big and frightening. 

Harry locks his phone. “Little bit, here and there,” he shrugs. He starts rinsing the cereal bowl.

“Liar.”

“Hey,” Harry says. “Remember how much Liam used to hate the crumbly layer at the bottom of cereal boxes? And everywhere you went on the bus, you’d be tripping over these almost-done boxes, but he wouldn’t finish them or throw them out?”

“Liam doesn’t like getting rid of anything.” Zayn pulls a yawning face. “So bloody glad we stopped doing busses and got proper hotels.” He’s quiet for a second, looking asleep on his feet. “Didn’t you try to use that leftover cereal for baking?” he asks suddenly.

“Oh yeah,” Harry says. “Tried making donuts with cereal crumble on top.” He’d gotten that out of a book, during that phase when Harry only ever wanted to read cookbooks with beautiful shiny pages and gloss.

“Tasted like arse,” Zayn says, and Harry, who’s stopped believing in his own myth of Harry Styles quaint local baker, shrugs. 

“Found out _some_ stuff,” he admits, glancing at his phone.

“Yeah.” Zayn watches him.

“Nick’s on vacation,” Harry says. “Husband. Kid. Phillippines. Says he’s going off the grid. Sends his love,” he muses, “so that’s nice.” 

“Yup.”

“I get a lot of traffic tickets.”

“Yup.”

“I don’t reply to texts very often. Unless they’re about work.”

“Yup.”

“I have,” Harry says waspishly, “a shit ton of lawyers.”

“Yup.”

“And—” Harry continues, “somehow in this future I’ve Vegas shotgun married Niall and then we got divorced — hence the lawyers —, and the media found out about it, and it’s been a thing that follows me everywhere.”

“Yeah,” Zayn says, pained, “that too.” He holds up his hands. “I dunno the details. You hate talkin’ about it. Grimshaw probably knows more. Heard you and him got _smashed_ when the divorce finally came through.”

“Grimmy’s on _vacation_ ,” Harry says. “Can hardly haul him in for questioning, can I?” He bites his thumb and broods. “Guess Tommo and Payno won’t want to tell me. Niall got them in the divorce.”

“Good guess,” Zayn says.

“S’wasn’t a guess,” Harry says, and thinks of Hiba’s mobile and Niall’s jumper, and this body that he’s in with its own memories, its own quick instincts. Harry wonders where its owner might be, whether or not 2024-Harry’s waking up in L.A to a mug of untouched tea and partly-read book on the kitchen counter. He looks at Zayn, and Zayn gets it. Zayn doesn’t got to ask.

 

:::

 

His mum’s been sending increasingly worried texts, and the guilt finally does him in. He tells Jeff he needs more time to get his head right, and Jeff moves around his work schedule. “You got a week, H,” he says, “and then I _need_ you back in L.A. Shooting starts Tuesday.”

“Have Ellie’s people said anything?”

“You were a fucking mess in recording,” Jeff says. “That’s what they said.”

“Soz.”

“Just — let me know if you need anything,” Jeff replies, sounding resigned. Harry’s never been anything other than Jeff’s golden boy. To be his disappointment is something of a novel sensation. 

“Actually,” Harry says, “can you get me Niall’s phone number? The one I have saved doesn’t work anymore.”

“Jesus Christ, go talk to his lawyers if you want it that badly,” Jeff says, and hangs up. So that’s a maybe then.

Holmes Chapel’s wet and mealy when he slouches into town, the village washed out under snow and cloud. He rents a car from London and drives along the old railway line, bringing him round the farmhouses, the cottages, St. Luke’s Church with its stout tower and clock, black film clinging to stone. The swoops of Twemlow viaduct carrying into stretches of white-tipped fields. He counts them as he drives past, the way he did as a child, making sure all’s accounted for. _I’m a country lad_ , Harry says to himself as if by saying so it’s still true.

His mum’s happy to have him home, even if there’s a caution, a gentleness, to the way she handles him. She knows something’s amiss, but she won’t make him say it. He tells her he hit his head in L.A, that’s why he’s so baffled about dates and people and things he ought to know, and Anne’s face grows tight. 

“You’ve seen a doctor then?” she asks, exchanging a glance with Robin.

“‘Course I’ve seen a doctor,” Harry lies. “Ran all sorts of tests, they did. Said best thing for me was rest, so here I am.” He spreads his arms expansively.

“Good to have you with us,” Robin says carefully. “Made up your room for you.”

Never ‘a’ room, always ‘your’ room, and Harry jerks awkwardly as he tromps to the room, Anne and Robin following him, watching and being watched. “Good ‘ol room,” Harry says brightly, and it’s only when they’re gone and he’s unwinding his scarf and stripping off his gloves that he breathes properly again. He wonders how long since he’s last been home. Even back in 2019, it’d been — some time-ish. His mum’s likely been despairing of him for years.

But she doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t bring up anything from Harry’s life in the past five years, even though she must have questions, even though Harry might’ve told her things he’s not told Nick or Zayn (and once it wouldn’t have been might’ve, it would’ve been certainty, but he’s not sure anymore; boys grow up and hurt their mothers). 

With her Harry can pretend nothing’s wrong, he’s really here for a vacation and a spot of lie-down on his old bed. The week passes. Not quickly, not slowly, not anything remarkable the way Harry thought his life might be now that he’s bent the time-space continuum. It simply passes, winter-hushed and day by day, walking about the house in the mornings with a quilt thrown over his shoulders, in shorts and knee-socks, sitting at the table blinking owlishly until Anne gives him coffee. 

The afternoons then, when everyone’s at work, and he crawls into bed with a laptop and earbuds he steals from Robin’s study to listen to his own album. The second one that only exists in this timeline, and he’s dying of curiosity while at the same time he’s — uncertain. Doesn’t want to be disappointed. Knows, intellectually, it must be decent, if he managed to squeeze a second world tour out of it, and the internet and his text history tells him he’s got a handful of Billboard hits too. But music’s not about knowing, only, it’s about where you were and how you felt when the song came on the radio. And listening to it, he tries to pretend he’s someone else, someone who doesn’t know whose album this is. What they would think.

(What Niall would think).

Listening to it, he thinks of ‘Olivia.’ Thinks of the Made in the AM, the band in the studio, and twenty-one-year-old Harry, hair still long and catching on zippers, buttons, everything, waving his hands and saying earnestly, _Yeah but there’s gotta be trumpets, the song’s not the same without trumpets_. 

When he listens to his second solo album, all he can hear are the trumpets. Not actually, like, trumpets, because not even Harry would fill a pop album with a marching band. But. It’s an album of songs he might’ve written. Songs he _did_ write, according to the credits, and even more than his first album, which was a calculated gamble of what his fans might want, Columbia pulling in a team of hitmakers to hold his hand, this second album’s full of music he likes. Retro-y. Bit of a Beatles vibe. Closer to his tastes than anything he’s made before, raw perhaps in some of its edges, music that’s meant to be performed live, hair in his eyes, mic in his palm, heart in his mouth.

Whatever else happened in this future, he thinks, whatever else he’s finding out as he goes through his phone, at least he made this.

Evenings, he and his mum take long, meandering walks around the parish. Talking a little, but mostly quiet, side by side, boots slipping through melting snow, tracking hares that dart onto the street and veer off into the dusk, swift buttermilk shadows. Harry watches them go.

On Saturday he and his mum go shopping in town, picking up things for dinner. Robin’s had to go into London, so it’s just the two of them. “Some sausage, I reckon,” Anne says, “and some cheese.”

“Wine,” Harry says.

“Can’t forget the wine,” she says firmly. “Red or white?”

“I dunno, you pick,” he says, and pokes through the store’s dwindling supply of discounted Valentine’s Day merch. In future-Harry’s poetry chapbook, there was a poem about this. Holidays once they’re over. What gets left behind. 

The girl at the cashier with the long blonde hair looks somewhat familiar. “Hi,” she says looking him in the eye, and Harry, surprised at being addressed, blinks.

“Hi,” he says, raspy. 

She must know who he is. Everybody in the village knows who he is; that can’t have changed in five years. “You went to school with my sister. Maggie Collingwood,” she says, ringing up his purchases while his mum’s popped over next door to say hi to Mrs. Dunwoody. “I’m Patricia. Pat.”

Harry’s not oblivious like some people he’s met (Liam). He knows when someone’s interested in him. Pat’s his type, cornsilk hair and a long lean throat, lovely even in her cheap polyester uniform, and Harry remembers having a thing for Maggie Collingwood way back when, first in their class and captain of the girl’s field hockey team. There’s a relief in being able to say he remembers someone after all. Pat’s looking at him, smiling, unafraid, and Harry thinks of what shagging her might be like. What those long legs would feel like wrapped around his waist. Good, he imagines.

“I’ve a night in with my mum,” he says. “Think we’re painting our nails. Girls’ night.”

“Sure,” she says gently, and Harry watches her sort her cash register after he leaves, not bothered in the slightest.

He and his mum do paint their nails that night. Mint julep for her, hot pink with gold flecks for him. They skype Gemma, who lives in Prague for work these days. She looks astonished to see Harry there but recovers admirably. “Remembering the existence of other people?” she says dryly, and when Harry goes into the kitchen, mostly to escape Gemma’s accusatory stare but also to fetch more wine, he can hear his mum and Gemma arguing in hushed tones. 

“Rough time… divorce… asking what year...” He can hear as he lingers overlong with the wine glasses. “Go easy on him, Gems.”

“Like this… even before…” Gemma’s voice rises. “… who does he thinks he is, Mick Jagger?”

Later that night, his mum’s asleep and snoring on the sofa. Harry brings down a quilt for her. Pours her a cup of water and leaves it on the coffee table, in case she wakes up thirsty like he always does. Then he pads upstairs in his slippers, and once in bed watches that video he found earlier today whilst sifting through his camera roll.

It’s him and Niall, shot with a shaky hand, Harry holding the phone in front of their faces and Niall trying to bat it away. They’re both laughing. Niall’s rolling his eyes. Timestamp August 16, 2022, and Harry knows without having to be told that this is the night they got married in Vegas, though he can’t imagine him and Niall getting married, not when in 2019 they’re barely speaking. 

He watches the video on loop, studying the hot flush on both their necks, the sound of a bottle clinking in an iced bucket, the aerosol spray of a surprised giggle, before googling ‘Niall Horan.’

 

:::

 

A week in Holmes Chapel and then he’s in L.A again, working. Jeff’s poured into his schedule all the things he missed whilst fucking off to England. Not his words, but Harry can tell. They don’t talk about the Ellie Goulding recording session anymore, but the silent reminder of it puts Jeff on edge as he gives Harry his marching orders. Harry doesn’t have the energy to fight him on any of it. _Meek and docile, that’s me_ , he texts Zayn.

_hey if it works…………_

Harry sticks his tongue out of the corner of his mouth as he types. _I am the passenger and I ride and I ride_

Zayn recognizes the lyrics, might remember a night once upon a time when he and Harry shared earbuds and a hotel bed. _Iggy Pop NICE_

_He’s quite ripped for an old bloke_

_#squadgoals_

_lol no one says thatt anymore_ , Zayn writes.

Jeff pulls him aside one day after they have a meeting with Columbia to sign the paperwork for Harry’s third album, to be released in the next two years. “You’re okay with all this, right?” His brow’s furrowed into deep lines, like pastry folds. “You sorted out… whatever it was?” And Harry thinks of a time when he would’ve told Jeff anything and everything on his mind, when he’d lie on Jeff’s couch with his heels to the wall and blather on, while Jeff would make them drinks and then take the piss out of him. 

“All sorted, thanks,” Harry lies. 

“You end up getting checked out by a doctor?”

“Oh yeah,” Harry says. “Turns out I did hit my head. You know how clumsy I am.” He grins. “Oops.”

Jeff’s still frowning at him. “You’re thirty years old, H. You gotta learn how to take care of yourself. There’s not always gonna be someone who’ll do it for you.”

But maybe that’s the hard part, Harry thinks, because maybe he kind of always thought there _was_. Sure, even back in 2019 he could tell he wasn’t as close to folk who he once thought were his whole life, but the same time he never thought he couldn’t win back whatever he let go, if he had to. People always come back to Harry when he wants them to, when he’s ready. 

In meetings, Jeff and the Columbia people remind Harry that he’s two months fresh off his second world tour, which Harry would know even if he didn’t have his team and the entire internet telling him. He knows because he can recognize the signs of a post-tour body: the fatigue, the restlessness, the lack of care. His voice is wearing out and there’s a dryness behind his eyelids that he can’t shake off. A pressure too as if a thumb’s driving down on his eyeballs, making him see spots. 

Jeff’s clearly given the Columbia team some warning about Harry’s state of mind. They’re all looking at him like he’s about to go haring off at the first loud voice. He hears more than one person turn to their partner and mutter, _messy divorce_.

He hears, _been like this for a while, just humour him_.

It’s a blow to his pride, because this is his job and he _knows_ how to do it even when the rest of his life’s for shit. The idea that people know he’s off-kilter, that perhaps it’s actually a pattern for future-Harry, makes him tense up, which throws him even more off his game, though he’ll kill himself trying if he needs to. Trying to catch up with all the things future-Harry ought to know, trying to make his team happy. 

His publicist in this future, Roanne, asks him to drop a tweet that hints he’s working on new music. Within ten minutes, he gets a hundred excited replies of _omg_ and _already? we’re so spoiled!_ and _LOVE U HARRY_.

This happens: Burberry names him the face of their new menswear line. He spends six hours at a single shoot, and naps on the couch while the stylist and the photographer bicker over the cut of his trenchcoat. He then dribbles herb-infused honey over crackers and eats them labouriously while they touch up his hair and dab highlighter on the summits of his cheeks and cupid’s bow. They strip his nail polish.

This happens: he has a two-episode guest star credit on Mindy Kaling’s new show, and stays up the entire night beforehand going over the script in a fit of self-doubt, because he’s supposed to have had it on hand for months, but obviously he _hasn’t_. It may only be a few pages’ worth of lines and a good smoulder, but future-Harry has way more acting experience than now-Harry, and he doesn’t want to fuck up again.

This happens: his HarperCollins publisher rings him at eight a.m., and when Harry’s blinking dazedly at his phone, she says, “Have you thought about writing another book? Maybe short stories this time? James Franco did it.”

This happens: he books an appointment with Dr. Sengupta, drives to her office, walks up to her doorstep, and then stops. Someone’s practicing piano down the street, a meticulously slow C scale, one key after the next, and Harry remembers this; it’s deja vu so strong that he has to sit down on the curb, dizzy and overwhelmed, stomach rolling like it’s sorting out whether or not it wants to vom. Two months of this, he reminds himself, but he doesn’t know that for sure; just because Zayn was stuck for two months in the future doesn’t mean he’ll be. He could be here even longer. You can hardly know when your time travel precedent is exactly one person, can you, and he listens to the piano with his head between his knees, breath hitched. The piano scales are sliding up and down, up and down. 

He thinks about the last book he’d been reading before he jumped, the miniseries part he was preparing for. He thinks about H.G. Wells and _The Time Machine_ , wonders if that had anything to do with it.

It must, he thinks fiercely. It has to. He drives himself home, ignores the missed call from Dr. Sengupta’s office, and tears through his bookshelves looking for his copy. He can’t find it even after a couple of passes. He descends into his basement and starts rummaging through storage, but no luck there. He’s sweating into the collar of his new Burberry knit, light-headed and none too steady.

Furiously he texts Zayn, Jeff, and Nick at the same time: _Missing some books of mine. Do you have them????_

Surprisingly, it’s Nick who replies first. _To think I almost went my whole vacation without hearing from you, Styles. Knew it was too peaceful, too good to be real_

 _Ha ha_ , Harry types sourly.

_Hate to say it but didn’t He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named swipe a bunch of books from you? During one of your torrid we’re-getting-divorced hate shags :)_

_What_

_Trust me_ , and he can hear Nick’s drawl, _I’d rather not know either._

A minute later: _But you told me he was a thief and he filched your stuff_

Harry chews his lip. Buries his hands in his too-short hair and tries not to yell. His fingers near bruise his phone as he writes, _He’s changed his number_. Then he tosses his phone on the carpet and lies down, and when he closes his eyes he can see it, swimming like a news ticker in his brain. His google search. A Popsugar blog post dated a few days ago. The headline. _WHERE IN THE WORLD IS NIALL HORAN?_

 

:::

 

“Louis,” he says.

“Oh fuck.” He can hear Louis choke on a laugh. “Thought I was seeing shit on caller ID when I picked up. But it’s really you.”

“Yeah, ‘s me,” Harry says, hand tight on his phone. “Look. I get the sense that maybe we’re—” he tries to figure out how to talk to this Louis, this Louis he doesn’t know. “—we’ve not chatted for a while,” he finishes lamely. 

“No,” Louis agrees, “we haven’t. We do Niall a favour and pretend you don’t exist. Was starting to wonder if we’d made you up to begin with.” He laughs again, slightly mocking, but the sound isn’t unfamiliar. Louis likes to mock Harry, always has. 

“Reckon I’m real enough.” Harry sits on his couch; pacing’s doing him no good. “But yeah. About that.” He trails off, looking out his second story window, over his gate, to see a lowrider throbbing down the street, with a lad in a snapback leaning out who seems faintly familiar, like someone Harry once met who’s now famous in this future. He clears his throat. “I need Niall’s new number.”

“You need it, huh.”

Harry scowls. “Don’t be a knob, Tommo. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t — important.”

He can hear Louis moving around on the other end, can hear voices that suggest Louis isn’t alone. “Important for who?” Louis asks in that same amused tone. “Important for you, or important for Niall? Just sayin’. I don’t need to see the two of you rip each other apart again cos you can’t sit down and talk about your fucking feelings.”

 _Louis, listen to me, I’m a bloody time traveler!_ Harry wants to shout. He bites his tongue. “How is he?” he asks. “Niall, I mean.”

“Well, _I’m_ fine, thanks for asking. Freddie’s good. Bri’s good. Poppy’s good.” Louis’ voice sharpens and Harry can hear him bellow, “C’mon! Are you screwing me, ref? That was a goddamn foul!” His voice goes back to normal. “Soz, I’m at one of Freddie’s football matches. This ref is rubbish, gonna have to give him a piece of my mind.”

“Louis,” Harry says, and is embarrassed by how easy it is to slip into a whine, like when they were younger and he wanted Louis to pay attention to him and no one else. 

“What? What?” Louis sounds momentarily distracted. “Right. Nialler,” he says. “What’d make you feel better? If I told you he was happy as a bird, or if I told you he was miserable?”

“Well—”

“I’m gonna tell you anyway,” Louis says cheerily. “He’s miserable. Starting to go a bit mental on that vineyard of his, I reckon. He actually rung me up asking what year it was. 

Harry’s quiet. “Yeah?” he finally croaks.

“It’s 2024, mate, doesn’t your rural shithole have calendars, I asked him—”

Harry swallows. 

“—and I know you’re, like, hopelessly in love with him,” Louis continues.

“Um.”

“—and so what’d ya want, his phone number? Liam’d kill me — oh for god’s sake!” Louis screams. “ _Are ya blind?_ ” Harry waits for him to finish cursing out the referee. Of course Louis would turn into some monster footie dad, it was only ever the natural direction of the universe. “Anyway, Liam would have my guts for giving you Niall’s number, but you know what, it doesn’t matter, cos I’m nearly sure Niall’s blocked you. After that last time—”

“ _Louis_ ,” Harry interrupts. “I — I just wanna talk to him, alright? Nothing bad, I promise. I wanna—” He thinks about what would make Louis relent. “I wanna say I’m sorry. For er, last time, and all the other times too.” Whatever they were, but he supposes he’ll find out soon enough. “Been doing a lot of thinking lately.”

“Haz,” Louis says, “the ink on your divorce’s barely three months old.”

“I know.” He doesn’t know.

“Look.” He can hear Louis sigh, most grievously. “Don’t feel like I can give you Niall’s new number without his say-so.”

“Can you ask him then?” Harry asks desperately. “Get his say-so?”

Another sigh. 

“Please,” says Harry. “Tell him it’s an — emergency.”

“An emergency for your dick, most like,” Louis drawls. Harry makes a frustrated noise, a growl in his throat, and Louis says, “Fine, I’ll ask.” A pause. “Cos you and me, we were friends once. Before any of this happened.”

“I remember,” Harry says.

 

:::

 

Harry sets his phone to Do Not Disturb when he sleeps. When he wakes up the next morning there’s a text from an unknown number with an address and no other details.

He tries not to put too much stock in it, but his chest feels splintered with a fission of quiet excitement. He calls Jeff and asks if he can bump up any time-sensitive projects to be done right away and hold off on anything else until Harry gives the go-ahead. “Doctor stuff,” Harry says vaguely, and hopes Jeff won’t ask too many questions.

Jeff’s not pleased (“you already had a week and a half in England”), but Harry makes thinly veiled dramatic allusions to his health and head trauma, might’ve mumbled the words “irreparable memory loss” somewhere in there, and finally Jeff gives in. Starts to sound genuinely concerned.

“I’ll tell everyone you’ve damaged your voice. That you need surgery and then recovery time.”

“Works for me,” Harry says, studying his calendar. “Could I be ready to leave L.A. in — two weeks?”

“Maybe,” Jeff hems. “Let me check. Where’re you going, anyway?”

“A vineyard, I think,” Harry says. “In Australia. Barossa Valley.” Just saying it out loud makes him feel awake for the first time in — he’s not even sure. A long time.

There’s silence on the other end of the phone as Jeff processes this piece of information. Harry can hear the change in his breathing as he starts to put two and two together.

“Harry Styles,” he says, “you shit for brains.”

  
  
  
  



	2. Better Homes and Gardens

Round and round and round he goes: flight from L.A to Sydney, from Sydney to Adelaide, and then a driver for the last hour and a half to take him through the shaggy greenery of the valley, pierced through with smoky reds and golds, trees by the road bowing heavy with fruit, to twenty kilometers north of the town of Nuriootpa. “Here we are,” driver says, driving up a gravel road to park neatly before a rundown farmhouse with a rooster mailbox and a sagging porch. “Twin Boughs Winery. Let me get your bags, sir.”

“Nah, s’all good.” Harry hauls his holdalls out of the boot. “Not as flimsy as I look.” He tips the driver and motions to send him off, but not without adding, “If, like, I needed another lift in half an hour, this is your number, right?” 

“That’s right,” the driver says. His smile’s a touch mischievous. “Not sure of your welcome, sir?”

“Well,” Harry hedges. He looks up at the sky.

“How about this,” is the reply. “I’ll go to Nuriootpa, find a coffeeshop, and I’ll wait until you tell me I’m good to go back to Adelaide.”

“That,” Harry says with relief, “would be brilliant.”

So now the driver’s departed, waiting for Harry’s SOS, and Harry’s staring at the two-story farmhouse with the peaked gables that fold together like the edges of a croissant. Parts of the front porch have rotted through, dark and soupy with a faint whiff of damp. Harry has the unsettling thought that the rest of the planks won’t support his tread either, and underneath will be all the dangerous, terrible snakes and spiders of Australia lying in wait. 

Heave ho, he thinks, and leaps over the shoddy planks to rap at the door. There’s no doorbell for him to lean against until Niall answers, which is a shame because in fact no one answers. 

He walks around the porch and peers in the windows, can see inside where there’s a sitting room with a piano, an archway further on that leads to a kitchen. He doesn’t see anyone inside, though it doesn’t mean Niall might not be upstairs — hiding, or whatever he does from future-Harry, even if he was the one who texted him his new address.

He waits on the porch for eight minutes, and then loses patience. He slants his hand over his eyes to peer against the sun, past the house to where there’s a weed-crowned patch of garden fenced in with chicken coop wire, and an old toolshed. Behind the toolshed there’s a dirt road that picks its way to a clump of cottages, a warehouse, and then the fields. The vineyard proper. 

He can see figures in the fields, plodding between the rows of trellises that bisect the soft, green hills. He had time on the way over; he did some research. Twin Boughs Winery in Barossa Valley. A small-to-medium vineyard of a hundred acres attached to a similarly sized family winery, producing bottles of shiraz mainly for sale in Australia and New Zealand, though with small distribution runs in North America and Asia. According to their website, the vineyard and winery are over a hundred years old, started by the Brodart family when they sailed to Australia from Surrey in 1907. None of which explains why Niall is here and, according to Louis, now owns the place. 

Harry picks up his bags and heads to the fields. It’s when he’s halfway down the path to the cottages that he reckons he might not have _had_ to bring his luggage with him, though he’s not keen to leave them unattended by the house either, years of TSA warnings and overzealous fans breeding caution. It’s too late now anyway. He drags his holdalls with him as he clomps down the path.

The house may be shabby, but the vineyard is glorious in the first peek of Australian autumn, red grapes fat on the vine, flies and bees bobbing in the golden mid-afternoon light that coats everything with a film the colour of good steeped tea. The first person Harry comes across is picking grapes by hand, squeezing the bunch at its neck before snipping it into her wheeled crate.

“Hi, can I help you?” Thick Aussie accent, pollen in the sweep of her eyelashes. He in his ankle boots, skinny jeans, and a Burberry trench he’s supposed to wear and get papped in. Sweat dewed on his exposed collarbones from wrestling with his luggage. She in her coveralls and heavy farm boots.

“Looking for Niall, actually,” Harry replies. 

“Think I saw him talking to Iskander,” the woman says. “Over there.” She makes a flappy gesture to her left. 

Harry digs his smile in a little deeper, knows his dimple’s showing. “I guess…” the woman adds tentatively, “I could take you there?”

“That’d be great,” he says, and follows her through the trellises, left turn, right turn, left turn again, his very own white rabbit. It’s not until they’re in a clearing and he can see two people by a long wooden table that the realization of seeing Niall thuds into him. His pulse quickens. He tries to smooth his hair, breaking into another round of sweat, and fuck, maybe he should’ve planned this out better, because the reality of Niall is eight feet in front of him, looking up at Harry’s approach.

“You didn’t tell me when you were flying in,” Niall frowns.

“Surprise,” Harry drawls. 

“Wasn’t sure you’d be coming at all.”

“You were the one who gave me the address,” Harry says. “What’d you think I’d do with it?” If Niall had deigned to respond to any of Harry’s texts, he might not have had to suffer Harry’s actual presence on his doorstep, but even as he thinks it, Harry knows it’s not true. The moment Niall gave him an address, Harry was never going to be satisfied with just texting. 

“Right.” Niall sighs. He’s wearing long rubber gloves that he peels off and throws onto the table. The man beside him (middle-aged, Asian, barrel-chested, voluminous beard) slants him a quick sharp look. “Lemme walk you back to the house.”

“Not gonna introduce me to your friends?” Harry asks, and he doesn’t mean for his voice to come out so sharp; he’s genuinely pleased to see Niall. But it’s like future-Harry’s body has priorities of its own, and those priorities include making Niall square his shoulders and stiffen.

“Yeah, sure,” Niall says, and he’s exactly how Harry remembers him in future-Harry’s dreams: thirty years old, unshaven, thick glasses, ropy new strength in his arms but with the same — softness, Harry thinks, as if he was looking for something and couldn’t rest until he found it. Soft cheeks, soft jaw, soft hair, and Harry feels woozy from jetlag and something else.

“Iskander, this is Harry,” Niall says, and the man shakes his hand silently. “This is Cat,” he says, and the woman who’d walked Harry over waves. 

“Hiya Harry,” she says. “ _The_ Harry then?” The look on her face makes it apparent that she knows exactly which Harry he is, but it’s worth it, almost, for the way Niall blanches. 

“House,” he says hurriedly, and then to Iskander, “Can I come find you later? You’ll be alright for a tick?”

“I will come get you if I have any questions, Mr. Horan,” Iskander replies, and he and Cat swap a look. Niall pretends to ignore it. He starts shuffling towards the house in that familiar wobbly gait he has, like sometimes it’s still hard to figure how to walk without tripping, and Harry doesn’t know what to think, there’s so much Niall here to process at once, old and new, strange and known. He falls into step, dragging his bags behind him, waiting for Niall to offer to help, but Niall doesn’t. Niall’s got on a plain white t-shirt and denim shorts. The same workboots as Cat and Iskander. A tan mapping the back of his neck where his hair ends. His nails are filthy. 

_I was married to this man,_ Harry thinks, trying to picture it as true. Tries to hold this Niall in his head with the Niall he saw at Liam’s wedding in 2019, and the Nialls he knew even before then, stretching all the way back to the very first Niall, the ur-Niall, sixteen years old and slouched beside Harry on an X-Factor couch, talking about the music that moves him.

They walk without saying anything, but Harry keeps sneaking glances at Niall, and Niall keeps stiffening, and it’s a game between them until finally Harry says, “Do you need those for real now?” He indicates the glasses.

Niall flushes. Interesting. He’s not as immovable as he looks, then. He jabs his glasses up his nose bridge. “Guess so.”

“Hm,” Harry says. “When’re you gonna help me with my bags?”

“Why’d you bring two suitcases?” Niall retorts. “Planning on staying here long?”

Harry has no clue how long he’ll stay, only that Jeff’s cleared his schedule for all of March. But he doesn’t tell Niall this, only smiles beatifically. “So rude, Nialler. I’m guessing this is why I divorced you.”

Too much? Harry has no idea what’s appropriate between them in this future, but enjoys the gaping fish face Niall makes, the edge of barely concealed panic. This Niall’s different from the Niall at Liam’s wedding. This Niall actually has a heart, he thinks meanly, and Niall’s discomfort is sort of amazing to watch. He grabs one of the holdalls from Harry (“ow,” Harry says mildly as it bangs about their knees) and frog-marches them back to the house. 

“What else can I do for you, your highness?” Niall asks when they’re inside. “Tea? Cupcakes?”

“Some coffee would be fantastic,” Harry says. “‘m famished.”

Every wall in the house needs a fresh coat of paint, Harry observes as he sits at the kitchen table and watches Niall wrestle with the coffeemaker. “It’s like someone died in here,” he says, and sneezes from all the dust in the air.

“Someone did.”

“ _Really_.”

“Her name was Martha Brodart.” Niall goes into the breadbox and starts sawing away at a loaf of bread. 

“The Brodarts who used to own this vineyard.” Harry wipes at his nose, pats his pocket for a kleenex. When Niall looks at him suspiciously, he shrugs. “I read.”

“Know you do,” Niall says, but he still sounds suspicious. “She was the last of the Brodarts who still worked this vineyard. When she died—”

“—how’d she die?” 

“Old age,” Niall scowls. “Christ, you’re so morbid. Not everyone’s gotta get brutally murdered for your entertainment. This ain’t telly.” He rummages in the pantry for some peanut butter and a jar of strawberry jam that looks like it’s been there since the birth of Harry’s grandparents. He bangs both down in front of Harry, along with the bread. Harry tucks in without sparing a single thought for his diet. Niall sinks into the chair across from him.

“Anyway, when she died, no one else in the family wanted to run this place anymore,” he says. “Estate went up for sale to the public, and that’s when I bought it.”

“A vineyard.” Harry spits crumbs as he talks. “In Australia.”

“Seems like I had a lot to get away from,” Niall says shortly. 

Harry suspects he rather knows who Niall had to get away from so badly, he moved across the world to do it. “Coffee!” he says brightly when he hears the machine beep. He feels more human after half a mug’s sitting warm in his belly. Keeps his fingers curled around the handle when he says, “You don’t happen to have some of my books, do you?”

“You’ve been traveling for nineteen hours and change,” Niall says, “and showing up here, freaking my employees out, like some sort of… _Burberry vagabond_ ,” he hisses, and Harry looks down at his trench because hey, it’s gorgeous, no need to be petty. “To ask me if I have your old shit? What the fuck?”

“One book in particular,” Harry says. “ _The Time Machine_. By H.G. Wells.”

“I know what _The Time Machine_ is. You were in the miniseries, for god’s sake,” Niall says. 

“Do you have the book then?”

“What the fuck,” Niall repeats.

“It’s a perfectly serious question. You don’t gotta be so pissy about it.” Harry sips his coffee. Then he decides to stop faffing about. On the plane he’d deliberated what to do next. Might’ve planned to wait until later to spring this, until he warmed Niall up to his presence. But now that he’s sitting here eating Niall’s food and his sinuses are clogged by the allergen mess of Niall’s house, there’s no point in delaying. Niall knows when Harry’s not saying something, and he’ll be all the more uncooperative if Harry makes him wait.

“Louis mentioned—” he rolls his tongue over the points of his teeth. “You asked him what year it was.”

Niall pales. “It was a joke. Tommo jokes all the time.”

“Yeah, but,” Harry hesitates. “Okay, maybe it was a joke. And maybe you’re gonna think I’m mental for what I’m about to say next, but I can’t — if there’s any possibility at all, I can’t say _nothing_ , I’d go mad wondering. It happened to me, and it happened to Zayn, so who knows, it might’ve happened to—” 

“What’re you on about” Niall interrupts. “What happened to Zayn?”

What does it matter, when future-Niall won’t want speak to Harry anyway after he kicks him off his vineyard. “ _Time travel_ ,” Harry says. “2019. Waking up and everything’s different, it’s all _changed_.” He searches Niall’s face and wonders if he’s simply seeing what he hopes to see, because Niall looks as if he's been walloped. 

Harry waits. Niall wets his lips. Croaks out: 

“Oh shit. Yeah, um, yeah. I do know.”

 

:::

 

A brief list of things that have made all the blood in Harry’s body rush torrentially to his head: great sex, long jogs, getting on his feet after too many drinks, that time Liam dared him to do ten somersaults in a row, and now this: finding out he isn’t alone, finding out Niall time-jumped too.

 

:::

 

“Went to bed February 17, 2019,” Harry begins, and Niall’s leaning across the table, all cold courtesy shed, tipping over the open jam jar until it rolls to the floor. Splat, goes the jam. Bum badum, goes Harry’s heart.

“ _Same_ ,” Niall says. “Exact same.” His eyes narrow. “You’re not having me on, are ya? Did Louis put you up to this?” 

“You think Louis Tomlinson is capable of making a prank so elaborate, it’s convinced us the only possible explanation is that we’ve jumped through time? And let us believe it for _weeks_?” Harry stops. “Actually, never mind. Forget I asked that.”

Niall chortles. This too is familiar. Never a bonding moment quite like bonding over your mutual disgust over Louis. “Jesus,” he says. “If you suspected I might be a time jumper too, why didn’t you lead with that? Instead of walking up to me outside, cool as you please, and making me think—”

“Hm, what?” Harry asks, excitement having returned to hunger. He’s munching on the bread and adding more peanut butter on top.

“Er, well.” Niall sounds embarrassed. “You mentioned. In this future, we’re apparently — uh, divorced?”

Harry grimaces. “Everybody knows. It’s _everywhere_.”

“You don’t need to tell me that,” Niall says. “Loving this future, yeah, where I google my name and find out everyone’s calling me Harry Styles’ missus.”

“Mm, well.”

“Well what?” Niall asks impatiently.

“That’s not us, right?” Harry looks up. “I wanna say that and get it out of the way, so we’re not, like, awkward about it.” 

“Not us, huh,” Niall says. He finally leans back in his seat, hands falling to his sides. “Nah, reckon you’re right. I’d have to be a completely different person to wanna get married to you.”

“There you go,” Harry says, finishing the bread with gusto. 

“Chew and then swallow,” Niall instructs. “Rather not have to call an ambulance for your sorry arse.” He fiddles with the empty plate. “What’d you say about Zayn? You were going on and on about him.”

So Harry explains. About what Zayn told him, the things he shared. He tells Niall about Fikriyya and Hiba too, and watches Niall’s eyebrows take a wander up towards his hairline. “He said he didn’t have to do anything and he jumped back all on his own?” Niall asks.

“Two months,” Harry informs him. “So I’m hopeful that we’re like that too, and we just got to wait it out. But I was also thinking, you know, the book.” He shrugs. “I was reading it the night I jumped. _The Time Machine_? It’s too good to be a coincidence.”

“Could be,” Niall says slowly. “Also, could be Zayn _did_ do something to trigger his jump-back, only he doesn’t know it.” He cocks his head. “What if we can’t replicate it?”

Harry, who hadn’t thought of that, frowns. Trust Niall to ask the pointed questions, even when it means saying things Harry doesn’t want to hear. Well, at least they have a lead. “The other thing I just thought of,” he says, “is why both of us? Zayn jumped by himself. He didn’t take anyone with him.”

“That he knows of.”

“Argh,” says Harry. “That he knows of. But hey, there’s two of us and we both jumped at what sounds like the same time, _to_ the same time.” He brushes the crumbs off his shirt and lets them scatter at his feet. “So if there’s a trigger, does that mean it’s the same trigger for both of us?”

“I wasn’t reading _The Time Machine_ , if that’s what you’re asking,” Niall says. “That night, I was—”

There’s a knock on the door. Niall glances out the window and winces. “Shit. It’s Iskander. It’s a vineyard thing. I need to see what it is.” Harry watches him go, watches the swing of his legs. He can hear Niall and Iskander mutter at each other from the front door, and when Niall comes back he’s apologetic.

“He really does need me for a sec,” he says. “I can’t say no. I mean, I own this bloody vineyard, don’t I?” The way he says it, it’s more question than statement. 

“‘s fine,” Harry says. “I could use a kip anyway. Nineteen hours and change. Can I—” he waves, “—bung off to a bed somewhere?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Niall says, already distracted. “Got some bedrooms upstairs no one’s using. Go wild.”

There are three bedrooms, and Harry’s nosy enough to want to poke around them all. One’s the master bedroom and very obviously belongs to Niall, with a knee brace thrown on the bedspread, guitar cases propped against the wall, golf magazines piled on the floor, and a half dozen bottles of hairspray on the dresser, all signs any amateur David Attenborough could agree indicate Niall Horan Lives Here. 

Harry takes the room beside Niall’s. It has lovely, large windows facing the vineyard. The rest of it’s as frayed as the house itself: paint cracks in the wall, musty bed with faded sheets, and a fine layer of dust motes glistening through every shaft of sunshine. He peeks his head into the other guest bedroom, and it’s much the same, though Niall’s got his weights set up there. 

The bathroom in between the two unused bedrooms is a state. Harry shudders at the kingdom of rust and mildew he’s stumbled upon, and trots off to the master bedroom ensuite instead. This one’s much better, Niall possessing _some_ standards, and Harry runs himself a much-longed for bath, gleefully exultant when he spies bubble bath in the cabinet. The old pipes can’t seem to get the water as hot as he likes, but he’ll make do. He sinks into the bubbles and closes his eyes.

He slathers his legs with moisturizer after that. Then naps. Sprawls out on top of the duvet and tries not to wheeze from the dust.

When he stirs from his nap, it’s nearly four in the afternoon. He can’t hear signs of anyone in the house, and a quick search confirms as much. By now he’s hungry again, stomach gurgling. He invades Niall’s fridge, but it might as well be Siberian wilderness in there: only a jar of pickles, a half stick of butter, BBQ sauce, and wilted lettuce. Harry might be willing to proclaim his devotion to salad at any given moment, but even he’s not too keen to make a meal out of only BBQ sauce and droopy lettuce.

There’s a quarter loaf of bread in the breadbox from before. Harry cuts himself another slice. Nice fine crust to it, recently baked. He appreciates a bloke who keeps an empty fridge but cares enough to buy fresh bread.

There’s a miniature telly on top of the fridge. Harry remembers Gemma telling him once about going to a friend’s house for the first time and being gobsmacked that they had a telly in their kitchen, that her friend’s mum let them watch it during dinner. Dinner at the Styles’ always meant family conversation, which seemed a cruel and unusual punishment when he was a kid. Harry locates the remote and starts channel-flipping, settling on Junior Masterchef Australia. He contents himself watching kids battle creme patissiere for the next half hour until he can hear Niall at the door.

“—think I saw a spare refractometer in here somewhere,” Niall’s saying. “What does it look like again?”

Voices, answering. Harry looks up when Niall, Iskander, and a weather-worn woman who looks like she could be related to Iskander, though with less beard, come through the kitchen.

“Hi,” says the woman.

“Hullo,” Harry says easily.

“Oh, Sari, this is Harry,” Niall says. “Harry, Sari. She’s Twin Boughs’ vineyard manager. Iskander’s our winery manager.” He rattles off the introductions swiftly, like he’d rather no one dwell on them. Not that this stops Sari from looking at Harry with undisguised interest. She elbows Iskander. Iskander grunts, clearly discomfited by the knowledge that his boss has a personal life that may involve internationally famous pop stars lounging aimlessly in his kitchen.

“Anyway, I think there was one in my study,” Niall says. “In a box of Martha’s stuff.” He ushers Iskander and Sari down the hall, and when they find whatsit, out the front door where the screen bangs with one final rattle. Niall comes shuffling into the kitchen.

“There’s no food in your fridge,” Harry says. “I was gonna start eating your fern.” He chomps his teeth to indicate his fern-eating readiness.

“Oi, you leave my fern alone,” Niall says. He yanks open his fridge and frowns. “Oh. Guess you’re right.” Harry smiles smugly. He loves being right. “We could go into town for a bite? Or,” Niall thinks, “Sari’s got a pantry.”

“We’re stealing food from your employees?” Harry says. “Seems like a bad management move.”

“Not her _own_ ,” Niall says. “The boarders get breakfast and lunch covered. Sari sees to it. There’s a communal kitchen in the winery. Ought to be stocked.” His laugh’s a funny little rattle. “Reckon it’d be a fuss if someone in town saw us having dinner together, so what’d you think? Raid the pantry?”

“Lead on,” Harry says magnanimously. 

The late-afternoon sun’s starting to dip into evening, and the darkening light over the vineyard stains everything the colour of crushed berries. Harry can hear, through the twisting, ropy grapevines, the hum of insects, and the chatter of the — boarders, Niall called them. Harry asks about this. 

“It’s harvest-time,” Niall explains, “so we hire seasonal workers, and it’s easier for most of them to just live here rather than going back and forth from town. Or Adelaide, more like,” Niall adds. “See those cottages?”

“Yeah.”

“Iskander and Sari — they’re twins — each got a cottage of their own. They’re year-round staff. The other two cottages can house three seasonal boarders.” He ticks them off his fingers. “Cat, Miranda, and D-Man.”

“How many seasonal workers do you have?” Harry swats a bug out of his face. “Are they all boarders?”

“Five seasonal, not all of them boarders. Three regular,” Niall says. “Sari says that’s how many a vineyard of this size needs to harvest to match production schedule.” He sees the considering look on Harry’s face. “I know, I know,” he says dryly. “Future-Niall’s a proper small business owner. Actual-Niall’s a deer in headlights trying to figure out what he’s expected to know. What’ve you been telling people in 2024?”

“Head trauma,” Harry says promptly. “Temporary amnesia. ’m not too specific on the details.”

“Same,” Niall says. That funny horsey laugh again. “Said I hit my head on some machinery. Bad idea. Iskander’s panicked one of the seasonals’ll do the same.” He leads Harry up the dirt road to the warehouse Harry noticed earlier. It’s dark and cool inside, with machines turned on and whirring. “Crushing the grapes, fermenting the grapes, y’know,” Niall says. “Wine stuff. Still wrapping my head around it.”

Harry follows him past the machinery to the add-on kitchen and pantry. “What’d you feel like then?” Niall asks.

“Game for anything,” Harry says. Then he remembers some of the meals Niall used to whip up for the band, when he got it into his head to prove that he wasn’t the baby and he could take care of them too. Weirdly enough, no one ever seemed to treat Harry, the actual baby of the band, like one. “Pasta?” 

Which leads to Niall grabbing the stuff they need from the shared pantry, and whipping up pasta with spinach and canned artichoke hearts. They eat it in the kitchen back at the house with its slowly creaking overhead fan and one burnt out bulb. “Sorry,” Niall winces when he sees Harry studying the ceiling. “Old Brodart house, looks like future-Niall’s not spent any time fixing it.” He forks his pasta and smirks. “But you like old vintagey shit, don’t you? It’s your thing.”

“I like my old things without the threat of tetanus, Niall,” Harry says. “There’s a difference. But it’s fine. I’ll just toss the bed things into the laundry before I go to sleep tonight.” He pauses. “You _do_ got a washing machine, right?”

“Running water, electricity, flush toilets, and everything,” Niall says. “Only the best and poshest for Mr. Harry Styles.”

 _Don’t we all agree that he gold-dug Niall_. Fikriyya’s voice comes to mind, unbidden. Harry wants to share the joke so they can have a laugh over it, would’ve done without hesitation even a couple of years ago, but — a couple years ago means something different here, doesn’t it, they’re on a different timeline now. And even though it might be 2019-Niall inside that older body, 2019-Niall’s no longer Harry’s best mate, the lad he would make a fool of himself over if it’d wring a smile.

“You were sayin’,” Harry prompts, with a mouthful of spaghetti. The table manners of a wildebeest, his mum used to say about him, and despair. “The night we jumped. I was reading _The Time Machine_. Then I went for a jog. Then bed. What about you?”

“I don’t even remember one hundred percent,” Niall groans. “Was an ordinary evening, nothing special about it. Worked on some music for—” he stops, clearly not wanting to share the details of his career with Harry. Harry doesn’t care, he doesn’t. “Went for a swim in my pool. Mucked about with other things. Went to bed. Best I can recall.”

“The music you were working on,” Harry says. “It weren’t called something like ‘My Big Fat Time Travel Life’, was it?”

“Oh my god,” Niall says, dropping his fork with a clatter. “I just remembered.”

Harry’s eyes widen. “What?”

“What the song was called. The night I jumped in time.” Niall leans forward, catches Harry’s gaze and holds it in a vise. ”It was called… Nothing Absolutely To Do With Anything At All.” 

Harry resists the urge to throw a noodle at him to see if it’ll stick to Niall’s forehead. “You’re a prick.”

“You released your album three bloody days after mine,” Niall says without batting an eyelash, “so as the Australians say, go fuck a platypus.” 

“The Aussies don’t say that. The platypus is, like, their holy animal.”

“Not in front of you, they don’t.” Niall rises and brings over a Twin Boughs bottle from the counter. “Want some shiraz? ‘m drowning in this stuff.”

Harry does want some wine. Pasta always tastes better with wine. He channels everything Nick’s ever taught him and sniffs what Niall pours. He swirls it around (“a mug, Horan, really? Not even a proper wineglass? What sort of winemaker are you?”). He drinks it. Niall watches him while pretending not to watch him. He finds the remote and turns on the telly over the fridge. Jeopardy’s on, and Alex Trebek is informing everyone of the length of the Euphrates. 

“It’s alright,” Harry decides. Niall puffs up. “What. You’re not even a wine drinker. Don’t make that face at me. You think a good time’s a pint of stout and a Red Bull shot.”

“Well, I am _now_ ,” Niall says. 

 

:::

 

Morning, and Harry’s eyes crack open like walnut shells, caaa--runch, he can feel the sticky gumminess of leftover sleep sticking his lashes together. He wakes up, moment by moment, confused in a way that first melts into hope (where is he, is he in 2019 again?), and then resignation, because nope, it’s still 2024, and he’s in Niall’s guest bedroom, he remembers all too well. 

Looking out the window he can see the early day’s sun, and dew as it clings fresh to the trees and vines. A lovely day in the Barossa Valley, sky lightening over the hills, and Niall’s bedroom door is still closed; it’s early enough that he might be still asleep. Harry makes himself a mug of tea, listening to the creaky old skeleton of the house waking up, struggling to pump water through the hundred year old pipes. He eats another piece of toast, a bite of last night’s pasta, and then puts on his trench and goes walking.

The air’s wildly clean, is the first thing he thinks, like mineral spring water so thin you swear you can see every individual particle. Harry ambles down the road towards the cottages, and he can see Sari and Iskander setting up folding table with chairs, and Cat bringing out a basket of bread and jams, with a smaller basket of apples and figs. 

“Coffee and tea’s in the kitchen,” Cat says, pointing towards the winery. 

“Thanks, I’m good, I’ve already had some.” Harry pats his tum. “Are you guys eating now? Niall told me you have breakfast and lunch together.”

“Nothing fancy,” Cat replies. “You don’t wanna load yourself down for a day of physical labour. But you’re welcome to join us.”

“Maybe later,” Harry says. “Gonna walk around some more, do a bit of exploring.” He offers a grin. “If no one sees me for the rest of the day, send a search party.” Cat gives a dutiful laugh, and Harry waves as he heads off into the vineyard, boots sinking with each step in the soil. It feels warmer here, like heat’s gone and soaked into the wooden trellises and their scores of grapes, made a home for itself. 

When he returns to the house, he can hear the shower groaning. He sets the kettle back on the hob to warm water for Niall’s tea, and watches telly until Niall tromps downstairs. 

“Er,” Niall says, as if he’s genuinely forgotten that Harry was here.

“Hi,” Harry says mildly. 

Niall, who’s wearing a towel and not much else, water dripping from his hair, onto his collarbones, blinks. His shoulders tense up. He’s so awkward about finding Harry in his kitchen that it makes Harry awkward too, even though they’ve seen each other in worse states of undress on tour. There’s nothing un-mate-like about catching Niall freshly steamed from the shower, even if Harry’s gaze fixes itself on Niall’s chest and stays there.

“Tea’ll be ready for you in a mo,” he finally says, addressing this announcement to Niall’s chest hair. Niall’s refusing to make eye contact with him.

“Thanks,” says Niall, and flees. Harry flexes his hands, snaps himself out of it. 

When Niall’s settled into the kitchen with proper clothes on, Harry says, “We should look for my copy of _The Time Machine_ today. In case you have it.”

“I really don’t know why I’d have _your_ books,” Niall says, eyeing the tea suspiciously. His expression evens out when he takes the first sip. Harry knows how Niall likes his tea, he’s not like to forget.

“Grimmy said—” Harry makes a face. “Grimmy said future-us would shag? And that you’d nick stuff from me after?”

Niall spits out his tea. Or rather he chokes, tries to recover, and tea ends up slowly trickling out of his mouth and dripping down his chin. “Why’d I nick stuff from you?” he demands, grabbing a tissue. “Even if I did, why would I keep it? I don’t need your rubbish, and from everything Louis and Liam’ve told me, divorcing you was the best thing I ever did.”

“Okay, number one, that’s so offensive,” Harry says, “cos X-Factor? One Direction? Solo albums? How can divorcing a drunken Vegas mistake be the absolute best thing in your life?” Niall scowls. “Number two,” Harry says, “I didn’t say you _have_ my books, only that you _might_. Doesn’t hurt to check, not when one of them might have a clue to how we jump back.”

“Fine, knock yourself out,” Niall says. “There’s still loads of boxes future-Niall hasn’t unpacked. They’re in the attic.”

“Excellent,” Harry says. “I’ll start looking.”

“Wait, on second thought, no way,” Niall interrupts. “I’m not having you look through future-Niall’s stuff without me there. And I’ve vineyard business to take care of all day.” He scoots his chair back. “We’ll look in the evening, alright? Together.”

“Who’s to stop me from going through your attic while you’re out?” Harry points out reasonably. 

“Common decency?” Niall suggests. Harry continues smiling at him. “Oh yeah, I forget who I’m talking to.” Niall picks at his still-damp hair. “Well, you won’t be able to snoop around the house by yourself. Not this morning, at least.”

“Whyever not?”

“Gotta introduce you to the workers,” Niall says in tones of deep weariness. It fits well with older-Niall’s face, actually. “Sari says they’re already dyin’ of curiousity. Think you’re my kept woman or summat.”

Harry tucks his curls behind his ears and preens. Niall motions at him with his mug. Some of the tea sloshes over the rim. “Do you got anything else to wear? Less fashion and more farm?”

“My luggage isn’t _all_ designer outfits,” Harry says, long-suffering. Then he thinks about it. “Wait, no, it might be.” Niall looks pained. “Don’t start,” Harry retorts. “Just cos you’re all… back-to-the-earth gentleman farmer now don’t mean I’ve conveniently forgot all the outrageously expensive clothes _you_ used to wear.” He straightens. “I brought t-shirt and jeans. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not a gentleman farmer,” Niall says. “Future-Niall is. This is _his_ life. I’m just trying not to blow my cover.”

“That’s what I meant.”

“Don’t get us confused, is all,” says Niall. He puts down his tea and cracks his neck. Harry winces at the sound. “C’mon, let’s go show you round then.”

Harry trip-traps after Niall into the fields, trying to keep up. “When’d future-Niall buy this vineyard from the Brodarts anyway?” he asks. “And are they really buying the amnesia story? I bet it’s a lot easier for me to fake being future-Harry than it is for you fake all… this.”

“Ya think?” Niall says, striding past the garden. “Future-Niall signed the papers for Twin Boughs May 2023.” Harry does the mental math. Little over a year ago, according to this timeline, and seven months before their divorce was finalized in November 2023. “Future-Niall’s not produced any music since 2021,” Niall adds, like a throwaway. 

“Nothing wrong with future-Niall wanting to lie low,” Harry says carefully. “Could all use a break, I think.”

“On the plus side,” Niall says as if he’s not heard him, “future-Niall hasn’t owned this vineyard so long that it can’t run without him, which helps with the whole amnesia excuse.” He smiles faintly. “Reckon Sari and Iskander were the real bosses even when Martha Brodart was alive. She was getting up there in years.”

“How long’ve they been here?”

“Forever,” Niall says, and laughs. “Uh, eight years? Nine years? I’ll have to look it up. I do know they ran a vineyard in Indonesia before immigrating to Australia. Sari knows absolutely everything about growing grapes, and Iskander’s your man for turning it into wine.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “I’ve got a distribution manager too, Samantha, who does the business end in Sydney. So’s not like they really need me. I’m just the angel investor who came in when they needed cash.”

“Well,” Harry says slowly, “you’re living here. You’re helping out. Reckon angel investors don’t need to do that, if they didn’t care.” 

“Future-Niall.”

“Right. If future-Niall didn’t care.”

Niall weaves them through the trellises, grabbing people to introduce. Within the span of twenty minutes Harry re-meets Sari and Cat, who’re busy plucking grapes. He meets, for the first time, Daniel, who for some unknowable reason everyone calls D-Man, a bird-boned Asian fellow in his fifties who’s the oldest of the workers. (“Been with Twin Boughs every harvest for over twenty years,” Niall says. “Think he’s an art teacher the rest of the year”). D-Man greets Harry with painful shyness, staring at his feet the whole time, his handshake a fleeting press of sweaty palms. 

D-Man shares a cottage with Cat and Miranda. Miranda’s a student from the University of Adelaide, a music major looking for an easy summer job, and Niall, she confesses sheepishly, doesn’t mind if she asks for weird hours sometimes if she needs to play a gig. 

Rachel’s another uni student, a PhD candidate, tattoo-limned and kohl-eyed. She barely grunts out a hello before she’s back to work. Rachel rents a room with a cousin in nearby Nurioopta, comes in every day in her old Chevy. Also living in town and hitching a lift with Rachel every day is Mareme, recently from Senegal. She’s quiet and uncomfortable with Harry until Niall asks, loudly, to see pictures of her four-year-old son, and then she smiles. 

Iskander’s in the winery, shirtsleeves rolled up, deep in the machinery. There’s no time to say hello to him, so Niall leaves him be. 

“It’s a nice team,” Harry offers after Niall’s obviously run a mental roll call and declared that’s everyone. “They like you.”

“They think I’m bloody useless,” Niall replies. 

“Charmingly useless, then,” Harry says. “Which — don’t you remember what it was like in the band? All the producers, all the publicists, all the security.” He throws Niall a bone. Bloke’s clearly struggling when Harry — well, just by being here Harry feels like he’s on vacation. “Your team _likes_ you. Don’t think anybody likes future-Harry. Even his mum’s put off by him.”

Niall opens his mouth. “Feel like I ought to defend Anne here.”

“Future-Harry’s a twat,” Harry says. “There. I said it.”

“Straight from the mouth of Harrys,” Niall says, and ducks his head so that Harry can hardly see his reluctant smile.

 

:::

 

In the attic he blasts out five sneezes in a row, and Niall, following him up the ladder with a torch, says, “Yeah, I get it, it’s dirty. You don’t got to make a production out of it.”

“The mind is strong to dust,” Harry intones, “but the body is weak.” He grips his own torch and starts moving boxes out of his way, like Moses wading through the sea of cardboard. “Which of these are yours?”

“Innit obvious?” Niall says. “Anything that don’t look it came from the 1950s.” He indicates the pallets mostly on their left, and pokes his head into the one on top, stacked so high he needs to push up on his toes. The back of his t-shirt rides over bare skin. “Vinyls in this one.” He clicks his tongue approvingly. “Future-Niall’s got good taste.”

“Oi, can we stop complimenting our future selves and actually look for this book?” Harry complains. “‘Course future-Niall’s got good taste in music. He’s future-you.” 

He drags the top three boxes off the closest stack and sets them on the floor. He drops down, crosses his legs, and starts sifting with one hand while aiming the light with the other. Vinyls, old clothes, assorted kitchen appliances. It’s like everything that might’ve once been in Niall’s L.A house got shipped here, no questions asked, like once future-Niall bought Twin Boughs he didn’t even think about it; he went. 

“You’re not actually hiding any dead bodies here, right?” Harry asks, sorting an entire box of identical plaid shirts. “Or really embarrassing porn?”

“God, I hope not,” Niall says meaningfully. “I mean, I know future-Niall’s a bit… weird—”

Harry raises his eyebrows.

“He lives on a fucking farm and barely has internet,” Niall says. “Trust me, future-Niall’s gone weird.” He sticks his head into a box and pulls out a pair of beat-up trainers. “So far, so good, though. No axe murderer evidence anywhere.”

Harry’s nose is running from all the dust. He forgot to bring tissues, so he discreetly tries to wipe it on the back of his hand. Riffling through the next box, he tries to think about how voyeuristic it is, going through future-Niall’s things when even Niall’s not sure what he’ll find. “It’s like we’re archaeologists,” he says aloud, “digging through some ancient site.” But really it turns out rather boring. Future-Niall’s junk is the same as anyone else’s junk, and Harry goes through five more boxes of old clothes, blu-rays, a foam roller, Halloween costumes of years gone by, a half-used-up first-aid kit.

The second most interesting part of the experience is when Niall opens a box, and Harry can see, even in the shadows, the sharp ends of his teeth pull into a grimace. “What’s that?” he asks eagerly, and Niall’s all too quick to tuck the box away. “ _Are_ you an axe murderer then?”

“‘s just music stuff,” Niall replies. 

“Uh huh.”

“Future-Niall made a second solo album.”

Harry saw as much when he was googling Niall. The Niall he knew in 2019 was struggling to write for his second album. Seems like future-Niall got it done, good for him, even if he’s not made any music after that. 

And, he thinks meanly, least it looked like there was a proper spacing of years between his and Harry’s second albums, enough to make certain people happy. Then he wonders if that still matters. If five years in the future they’ll still have to weigh all their solo careers and successes against the giant churning bellows that was One Direction. 

The most interesting thing that happens whilst going through the boxes is: they find _The Time Machine_. It’s become so old and battered that Harry actually gives it a pass before recognizing it; it was brand-new when he saw it last. But he makes a noise of excitement as he rescues it from the bottom of a pile of other books, A.S Byatts and Patrick O’Brians and a movie-version cover of _Bridget Jones’ Diary_ , all of which are certifiably his. Niall looks embarrassed to see them, though whether it’s shame over Harry’s literary taste or his own klepto tendencies, who knows.

“So what now?” Niall asks. “We tap our ruby shoes and go home to Kansas?”

“Dunno,” Harry says, cracking open the spine. A puff of dust rises to greet him. He sneezes. “It’s a book so I’m guessing we ought to read it.” He sneezes again. “But maybe not here.”

“C’mon,” Niall says, getting up with a groan. “Me back’s killing me anyway.” Harry’s is too, not that he was going to admit it. Niall climbs down the ladder first. Harry flails a little as he follows, trying to hold onto the book and his torch at the same time. He nearly kicks Niall in the head.

“Whoa, steady there,” Niall says, dodging. “See that future-Harry’s not any more coordinated than you are.”

“I can’t even begin to parse the temporal complexity of that sentence,” Harry says, dropping to the second story carpet.

At the kitchen table he turns the book over in his hands. “I reckon I do really got to read it,” he says. “See if anything happens.”

“Yeah,” Niall admits. He plucks the book from Harry and flips through the pages. “Hate to say it, but it’s the closest thing we have to a clue about how we got here.” He hands the book back. “Happy reading, mate.”

“I’ll start tomorrow,” Harry decides. “I’m knackered tonight.”

“ _You’re_ knackered?” Niall says in disbelief. “All you did today was walk around the fields like a well-oiled git and intimidate the workers.” Harry immediately takes affront to this, because who was the one who decided introductions should be made? But then he sees Niall’s face. Realizes that he’s just taking the piss out of him. 

“You don’t mind, do you?” Harry asks honestly. “If I stay a few more days. Told Jeff I need to be on break.”

“If you’re gonna hide out from the rest of the world, middle of wine region Australia’s the place to do it,” Niall sighs. Put-upon is another look that older-Niall’s face does well. “It’s not like I don’t got the room.”

“Smashing,” says Harry, and means it.

“You do know that everyone’ll think we’re shagging?” Niall points out. “Not a joke, for real.”

“Niall,” Harry says patiently, “I’m positive everyone thought I was, for real, sticking it to you the moment I walked up the road to this house.” 

Niall turns beautifully red across his sun-darkened freckles, which was precisely Harry’s intended result. Useful to know that Harry can still fluster him when he wants to. “I mean,” Harry hesitates. “Do you think it’ll be, y’know, a _problem_? If people talk?”

“I dunno,” Niall mumbles. “Everyone at Twin Boughs’ been good so far about giving me privacy. About not bringing up my past. Future-Niall’s past. _Whatever_.” He stops to think, and Harry can picture the metaphysical cartwheels turning in his head. “But, like, it’d be good money to the paps. If they could prove future-Niall and future-Harry are shacking up again.”

“Guess we’ll have to take it as it comes,” Harry says. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll jump back after I finish reading the book and all of this will be moot anyway.” And he’s pretty sure future-Niall and future-Harry never actually shacked up, considering their marriage was one night’s mistake and then a phalanx of lawyers, but he doesn’t say that. 

“Also,” Harry adds, feeling inspired, “I could help out on the vineyard.”

“Yeah,” Niall drawls, “not sure that’s the honey to the pot you think it is. But I already said yes, didn’t I? Stay if ya want.” He shrugs. “Us time travelers might as well stick together.”

“Yes, exactly. Glad we’re on the same page,” Harry says.

“Hey,” says Niall. “Something I’ve been thinking about. We’re our 2019 brains in our 2024 bodies, right? Then where’d you think—” he drums his fingers on the formica tabletop. “Where’d you think our 2024 brains are? I wonder if we’re here in their timeline, maybe they’re there—”

“—in our 2019 bodies?” Harry finishes. “I been thinking about that too. There’s no way of proving it, but it _could_ be.”

“Fuck,” Niall laughs. “Can you picture it? Those sad sack bastards.”

“You know they won’t even consider talking to each other,” Harry says. “Won’t probably ever realize that they time-jumped together.” He gives Niall a cheeky look. “So aren’t you glad I tracked you down in this timeline? Could’ve wasted so much time otherwise.”

“Ah, there it is,” Niall says, “your need for an adoring audience. Glad your ego made the time-jump with you.” 

“Heyyyy.”

“Then again, maybe we don’t need to worry 2024-us are wrecking our 2019-lives with their dumbassery,” Niall continues. “Cos when Zayn jumped. You said he jumped from 2015 to 2017?” Harry nods. “How much time actually passed in 2015? Between Z jumping and jumping back.”

“Not much,” Harry says. “A few minutes, I think.”

“So maybe time’s got like — these pockets.” Niall grabs a napkin and starts rummaging for a pen in the drawers. Finds one and draws out a straight line. Then draws a straight line with a dip in it. “Like a sidewalk with a crack and we’ve fallen in.” He sounds revved up, eyes getting bright, and oh right, Niall was always into the science fiction stuff, wasn’t he. Should’ve known he’d be fascinated. “Or time’s a deep ocean but we’ve been fed by the currents into one of the kiddie pools.” He doodles a wave, and stick figure Niall and Harry shouting for help.

“The shallow end of the time-space continuum.” Harry considers this metaphor, and starts to laugh. “Or no, like one of them rubber inflatable backyard pools. Oh my god, you’re right. Kiddie pool of time. That’s exactly where we are.”

 

:::

 

Time, as it turns out, waits for no grape.

“This is what you get for hiring musicians,” Sari says, her Indonesian accent thickening in crossness. “Artists and musicians are not dependable. Never do what they say they are going to do.”

“Erm, well, yeah.” Harry can hear Niall’s voice come out of the room he uses for an office. “I’m not gonna argue this one.” A pause. “We can fill Miranda’s position, right? Gotta be loads of summer students in town who need jobs.”

“Filling it won’t be hard,” Sari replies, “but it’s one more thing to make time for, when the one thing during harvest we don’t have much of _is_ time.”

Harry can’t resist. He swallows the last bite of his granola bar and pokes his head into the door. Niall’s fault for not closing the door, really. “Can I help?” he asks innocently. Niall, Sari, and Iskander glance up. Niall’s face doesn’t skip a beat before settling into that pinched expression it gets when he sees Harry these days, like a pet dachshund he’s not sure what to do with.

“This is vineyard business,” Niall says. “It’d probably bore you, to be honest.”

“I literally have nothing else to do with my days other than read a certain book,” Harry says. 

“Yeah, about that,” says Niall. “It’s not even a long book.”

“It’s _dull_.”

“You’re not reading it for your personal enjoyment,” Niall says, while Sari and Iskander’s heads are two ping pong balls, bouncing between Harry and Niall, and back to Harry again. Niall clears his throat. “Anyway, _I’m_ barely any help to Sari, so not sure what you can do.”

“That is not true, Mr. Horan,” Iskander says slowly. 

“You don’t gotta make me feel better,” Niall says. “I know I’m dead weight. Just—” he runs a hand through his hair, his fingers catching briefly on the rims of his glasses. “I’m trying, yeah?”

“We know you are trying,” Sari says. “And I don’t think it’s so bad an idea, having Mr. Harry help you. He could be your… what is that word? Personal assistant. If he is so eager for something to do.”

Niall chokes. 

“I could totally be your personal assistant,” Harry says, taking this as his cue to sidle into the office. He perches on the desk. “Just give me a task. You need to fill a position, is that it?”

“Yes,” Iskander says. “Miranda has quit.”

“Musicians,” Harry says, shaking his head sadly. Niall shoots him a cross look. Niall needs to be less cross about everything. Maybe a good juice cleanse would help. “Okay, well, can we put an ad on—” he tries to think about where normal people go to find jobs. “Kijiji? Craigslist? Do they even use those in Australia?”

“Or quite possibly one of the current workers might know someone else,” Sari says. “It is often the easiest way to find someone on short notice.”

“Cat will know someone,” Iskander says and then, for no explicable reason, blushes. 

“I leave it to you two then,” Sari says to Harry and Niall. 

Cat does know someone. “I have a nephew,” she says when they approach her, Harry all smiles, Niall looking disgruntled (“you’re not _actually_ my assistant, you do know that, right?” he hisses at one point, while Harry feigns temporary deafness). Cat’s nephew is nineteen years old, taking a year off to find himself before uni, and lives in Adelaide. His name’s Godfrey, but through no fault of Cat’s, she’s quick to disclaim.

Godfrey is a rambly mess when they call him up, putting him on speakerphone in Niall’s office. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he says, stumbling over his words. “I’m no good at talking on the phone. No one _ever_ calls me.” A few minutes later. “Uh, I can start right away! Tomorrow! But. I’ve got no money for the bus. Sooooo.”

Harry and Niall’s eyes meet. 

“To be fair,” Niall says afterwards, “and I can’t believe I’m gonna say this — god, bury me now — but he _is_ really fucking young.”

“I can’t believe you said that, Niall Horan,” Harry says. “Just by those words leaving your mouth, you’ve made us _officially old_.”

“We’re in thirty-year-old bodies, Haz.”

“Thirty is the new twenty,” Harry says. “Everybody knows this.”

“See, that saying don’t make any sense to me,” Niall replies, “cos if thirty is the new twenty, then is twenty is the new ten? And is ten the new infancy? And is infancy the new, I dunno, embryo. Where does the madness end? _Where does the madness end?_ ” He’s laughing to himself like the dweeb that he is.

“Want me to pick up fair young Godfrey, he of the atrocious phone manners and no money for the bus?” Harry asks. 

“Sure, sure,” Niall says, still laughing. “You can borrow my truck.”

Future-Niall owns a pickup truck. Well, of course he does. It’s not that Harry’s not noticed the silver Ford parked behind the house, right next to someone’s Mazda, but he might’ve thought it belonged to Iskander or Sari. Harry’s driven a lot of fancy vehicles over the years but he’s never driven a truck before, is strangely delighted to try. He wishes he had a snapback to complete the look but Niall refuses to lend one of his.

“It’s like watching Pickup Truck Barbie,” Niall says, handing over the keys. “You’re to drive to Adelaide and pick up Godfrey. You don’t gotta accessorize.”

Harry adjusts the rearview mirror. He’s so high up, he thinks happily.

“Don’t forget your phone,” Niall says, “and don’t forget to turn on sat nav. I’ve given you Godfrey’s _exact address_ , remember.”

“Niall,” Harry says, “do you think _People_ ’s third Sexiest Man Alive 2023 would forget how to use sat nav?” 

He can hear Niall’s groan trail all the way to the end of the driveway. Then he’s on his way to Adelaide, coursing through Barossa Valley, wondering if it was really less than a week ago that he had a driver drop him off at Twin Boughs. Time’s not so much a kiddie pool as it’s an elastic band, he thinks. On the passenger seat he has his phone with sat nav turned on, his wallet, and _The Time Machine_ , dog-eared, all but two chapters done. 

Godfrey’s a wee lanky ginger-haired thing, waiting on the front steps when Harry arrives at his parents’ neat suburban house. That thought more than anything makes Harry feel old. The lad’s jaw drops when he sees Harry fall out of the truck. The height of the seat is not as fun as it originally looked.

“Yes,” Harry says grandly, brushing at the dirt on his knees, “it is I, Harry Styles, come to drive you to your new job.”

“Um.” Godfrey’s eyes go everywhere. “Is this a dream? Am I being kidnapped?”

“Tough economy. Economic depression. We’ve all needed to find second careers,” Harry says. “Haven’t you read about it in the papers? Now get in the truck.”

 

:::

 

Harry finishes reading _The Time Machine_ after getting Godfrey settled into the cottage he’ll share with D-Man and Cat. Then he waits for the skies to crack and rain down lightning.

This does not happen.

“Well,” says Niall, and his face is so blank, Harry can’t tell if he feels disappointment or frustration or secret happiness or _what_. “Here’s betting on another day at Twin Boughs tomorrow. I’m going to bed.”

Harry stays up all night staring at the ceiling. Morning comes and he’s a groggy lump, grabby hands for the strongest coffee Niall will make for him. Niall doesn’t look much better, oily dark smears underneath his eyes, faint frown lines around his mouth. They slurp their coffee in silence, until Niall cracks his neck (Harry will never stop jumping at the sound, Niall’s chiropractor might want to have words with him). 

“Only a few days left in harvest,” Niall says, staring out the window. 

“Seems like it’s going quickly.”

“No choice but to,” Niall says. “Once the grapes are ready, you don’t wanna wait too long before you start picking and crushing.” He sounds like he’s rattling off facts from a book, or more likely, Sari. He bestows on Harry a cheeky look that’s a mirror of the one Harry’s thrown him before. “You said you wanted to help, didn’t you?”

“I can pick grapes,” Harry says philosophically. “Shouldn’t be hard.”

Niall cackles and sends him to Sari for training. Godfrey’s already waiting, shifting from one foot to another, when Harry shows up. Lad looks as starstruck as yesterday. “Um, um, hi,” he says weakly, and Sari rolls her eyes. Harry gives Godfrey an encouraging smile from behind his shades.

Sari takes them into the fields and starts explaining the intricacies of grape harvest. She tosses out words like “Geneva double curtain trellis system” and “titratable acidity” until Harry’s head feels like a vat of mush. More or less he gets from her that to determine when their syrah grapes are ready for harvest involves three factors: sugar content, acid levels, and pH. She shows them a refractometer, the thing they were looking for in Niall’s house earlier, which measures percentage Brix, which Harry madly googles to learn means the sugar content of any aqueous solution. Grapes are ready to pick when they are at ideal Brix, acid, and pH, and ideal weather too.

“But none of this science really matters for you,” Sari says bluntly. “It’s my job to figure it out. Your job is to pick.”

To pick grapes, Harry learns, means holding a cluster in one palm and snipping the whole party off the vine with a pair of scissors. Almost impossible to do it by hand or a blunt instrument without damaging the plant, so keep your scissors sharp, Sari instructs. You must never crush or split the grapes in the process, or unwanted molds or yeast could colonize them. Better to toss ruined grapes to the dirt.

Then they’re to gently (“gently!” Sari barks) lay the clusters in stackable plastic containers, each of which can hold forty pounds of grapes. They each get a wheeled crate like the one Harry’s seen Cat use to transport their containers as they move down the trellises. 

They start immediately after breakfast, work until lunch, and then finish the rest of their day while the sun’s still up. The first hour is entertaining, and Harry thinks of it like a special kind of wine-making yoga. The movements are soothing and repetitive and he quickly settles into a groove of snip, snip, snip. Then the sun gets higher in the sky and sweat starts stinging his eyes. Then his back starts to hurt. 

“It’s bloody _hard_ ,” Harry says when he catches Niall at lunch-time. “Look, I already have a tan.” He stretches out the backs of his hands for Niall to inspect.

“You’re using sun cream, right?” Niall asks, sounding sympathetic for once.

“‘course I am, I’d burn to a char without it,” Harry says. “Also, Sari’s quite mean.”

“Yeah,” Niall grins, “she is, isn’t she?.”

He goes back to work after lunch, mostly out of fear that Sari will tear him a new one, and also he doesn’t want to be thought of as weak. Gets, for the first time, why Niall’s so determined to prove himself with these folk. When he fills his crate, he wheels his harvest over to the winery where D-Man sorts through and tosses out any bad grapes, and then Iskander feeds the rest into the stemmer-crusher. He lets Harry watch. 

In his soft-spoken way he explains, “Best wine is made from crushing the grapes immediately after harvest, no waiting.” Iskander adds, with a slight smile, “Smaller wineries sometimes crush the grapes by feet, you know.”

Harry pictures himself stomping over the grapes he just picked, and decides he very much likes that image.

On his way back into the fields, he passes Godfrey. “Hey, how’s it going, mate?” Harry asks, clapping him on the shoulder.

Godfrey groans. He hasn’t used sun cream, to Harry’s alarm, and his face is a bright shade of red. “Oh shit,” Harry says. “Let me, er, get you something for that.” Poor lad, he thinks, and makes the effort to find Sari along the way to tell her. 

The rest of the day is long, sweaty, and sore. Mosquitoes eat at him. Flies alight on his hair. Harry’s fingertips are stained red from hours of accidentally squeezing grapes until their skins break. “Take pity on me,” Harry says when he throws himself across the couch in Niall’s sitting room. “Your poor indentured servant. Feed my empty, broken body.”

Niall looks up from a laptop screen swimming with spreadsheets. “Okay,” he says. He goes into the kitchen and comes back out with a bowl of cereal.

“This is not an acceptable meal,” Harry says.

“It’s all I’ve the energy to make,” Niall says. “You’re not the only one who’s had a long day. I’ve had to fight with these numbers — so many fucking numbers.” He removes his glasses and rubs his forehead. “Me, who never finished secondary school.”

“What _kind_ of cereal is it?” Harry finally acquiesces. 

“Dunno, something bran.”

Better than the cereal Zayn had to offer, Harry decides. Less likely to give him adult diabetes. He digs into the bowl ferociously. Niall sets aside his laptop and fixes himself a bowl too. It’s like in the morning; they crunch silently, without saying much, except that the natural antisocial behavior and grunting communication accepted by all civilized societies in morning hours feels strange in the evening. When he and Niall used to never able to shut up in each other’s presence, they were so in sync.

“Thanks.”

Niall’s voice after long minutes of quiet startles him. “Uh, for what?”

“Helping out today,” Niall says, staring at his cereal. “And before. Giving Godfrey a lift. You didn’t need to do any of that. It’s not your vineyard.”

“Niall,” Harry begins. He licks the back of his spoon. “You’re — how do I put this — you’re the only person on this entire planet right now who knows who I really am. So I don’t mind work, even if it might’ve given me back pain for the rest of my life.”

“It’s throwing me off,” Niall admits, “you being so willing to give a hand. Like you’re—” he looks up at last, with a wry smile, “—old Harry.”

“Oi, I thought we said we weren’t making fun of our ages.”

“No, I mean _old_ Harry,” Niall says. “The Harry I was — friends with.” They both fall quiet again at that. “I dunno how to explain it. It’s weird. Like sometimes you’re my mate, and then sometimes you’re this stranger, and it’s not just the way you look now, this body.” He waves. “Even back in 2019. It was — confusing.”

It’s not confusing at all, Harry wants to say. People change. There’s no way he could’ve stayed the Harry that Niall keeps in his memory, the Harry from One Direction. 

“Maybe,” Niall says, voice changing to something forcibly lighter, “maybe you’re not Harry at all.” He gives a fake gasp. “Maybe you’re… Hamberto Swisher-Fipper-Aisles, the sixth member of One Direction.”

(They’re seventeen years old, and Niall’s crawled into Harry’s bed because he can’t sleep, and carding his fingers through Harry’s hair, said, “Saw a bloke today in the crowd that looked exactly like you.”

“Maybe he was my secret twin,” Harry’d said sleepily. 

“Must be,” Niall murmured. “Think he said his name was… Hamberto Swisher-Fipper-Aisles. Sounds about right for someone related to you.”

“That is _not_ a name in my family,” Harry’d yawned, but was all too happy to slide back into sleep whilst listening to Niall make up stories about Hamberto and how Harry was so clumsy management needed to bring Hamberto in as a stunt double anytime they had to do anything physically adventurous, like walking across a stage). 

“Good old Hamberto,” Harry says. “I wonder if he made the time-jump with us.”

“Nah,” Niall says, after another swallow of cereal. “Hamberto’s too smart for these kinds of shenanigans. Bet he’s still in 2019, living his best life.”

“Probably went to uni, Hamberto did,” Harry muses. 

“Media studies major,” Niall nods knowingly.

“Took a first,” Harry agrees. “Works as a—”

“—media consultant.”

“What does that even mean?”

“No idea,” Niall says, “but Hamberto’s great at it.”

“Of course Hamberto’s great at it,” Harry says. “He’s _my_ secret twin, ain’t he? I bet he met a cute boy after graduation.” He sees Niall’s eyebrow go up, but tries not to make anything of it. “Proposed to him. Adopted five corgis. And not just regular corgis either. Corgis that’ve… one leg, or heart conditions, or summat.”

“Oh god,” Niall snorts. “I bet he goes to farmers’ markets every Saturday and buys bucketfuls of arugula.”

“Dear old Hamberto,” Harry says, “the most successful of us all.” 

“Speaking of farmers markets,” Niall says cunningly, “there’s one in Nuriootpa. Every Sunday. Since we’re running out of proper food in this house and all. Thought you might wanna know.”

Harry lights up.

 

:::

 

Nuriootpa is exactly what one might expect for a town in the heart of vineyard country, surrounded by at least a dozen wineries. It’s stock photo picturesque. Vines hug the old buildings along high street, and big tour buses parked on the curbs spill out chattering families and couples on tasting tours and weekend retreats. The Sunday farmers market’s closed down most of the main thoroughfare. 

Harry’s not trying to make trouble for Niall, so he goes as incognito as he can. Big shades, ballcap, ratty jumper found in the attic. His hair’s so short that he can hide any errant curls underneath the cap. 

“Don’t buy any of our competitors’ wines!” Niall shouts at him as he gets in the pickup. “Especially not any Penfolds or Wolf Blass, those bastards!”

It’s a very simple formula to discover which Australian wineries Niall hates the most: the closer their properties come to bordering Twin Boughs’, the more vehement the hatred. Harry needs a map drawn up so he knows who to detest and who to merely tolerate. 

At the farmers market he loads his canvas totes until he’s practically dragging them behind him like body bags stuffed with his beautiful fruit victims. He can’t decide what he wants most so he buys a nibble of everything: apples, blackberries, valencia oranges, passionfruit, persimmons. Then he spies the vegetables and it’s game over. He loads up on artichokes, brussel sprouts, eggplants, and zucchini, and spends several minutes puzzling over a sign for witlof until the vendor explains they’re endives, and of course Harry wants endives, they shall never be parted again.

He picks up a loaf of bread (so this is where Niall gets his, he recognizes the paper the bread comes in), a jar of local honey, and a carton of eggs. His mobile rings when he’s paying for the eggs, painstakingly counting out Australian change. He nearly drops it when he fumbles for his phone in his pocket. It goes to voicemail.

He checks caller display after the eggs are safely in his bags, nestled on top of everything else so they don’t get crushed. He calls back.

“Grimmy,” he says. “He of the magnificent quiff. You rang?”

“Indeed I did,” Nick says. “Just got back from vacation with the holy terror—” Harry doesn’t know if he means his husband or his daughter, and Harry doesn’t know enough about future-Nick’s life to guess, “—and thought I’d give my old pal Harold a call. Jeff’s right worried about you. It’s infectious.”

“Can’t believe you and Jeff talk,” Harry says. There’s a park some steps away from the market, shaded trees and not too many tourists there. He grabs a bench. 

“He’s been telling the media you’re getting vocal cord surgery,” Nick says, “but that’s not what you’re really up to, is it?” He sounds so pleasant asking it, so normal, that Harry’s eyes water. Maybe Nick’s the only thing in future-Harry’s life that’s not changed.

“Nah, that’s just a story,” Harry says, clearing his throat. He has the dangerous urge to tell Nick everything, but then he stops himself. Tries to be reasonable about it. Just because Nick’s still his friend doesn’t mean Nick will buy the time travel story, and Harry’s not sure he could handle it if Nick thought he was crazy too. So he says, “Hit my head.” Nick makes a sound and Harry hurriedly adds, “Doctors say it isn’t serious! But I’ve been having trouble — remembering things, I guess.”

“What sort of things?” Nick asks, concerned. 

“Not like, how to tie my shoelaces or stuff like that,” Harry says. “But a spot of amnesia, like — in the movies. You know, who’m I dating, what’s the name of my last album.”

“And you’ve seen the doctors?”

“Yes, Grimmers, I’ve seen the very fancy, world-famous doctors,” Harry lies. “They say it’ll come back to me if I take it easy, so I’m taking it easy.”

“In Australia.” He can hear Nick moving around now, turning the phone aside to say something to another person in the room. “Jeff told me,” Nick remarks when he’s back.

“Yeah,” Harry says.

“Australia,” Nick repeats. “Where Niall currently lives, according to my inside sources.”

“Mmhmm,” Harry says. “And your inside sources aren’t named Matt Fincham, are they?”

“You showed up on his doorstep, didn’t you,” Nick says. “Like the lovesick arsewipe you are.”

“ _Excuse you_ ,” Harry says. “I’ve been proving myself very useful. Picking grapes, fetching lackeys. He’s better off with me here.” Nick laughs the laugh of the truly despairing. “‘sides,” Harry adds, “what’d you mean I’m lovesick? What sort of rubbish is that? What _happened_ between me and Niall?”

“Is that part of what you forgot?” Nick asks. 

“Yeah.”

“Jesus.” Nick laughs again. “You’re stalking the bloke and you don’t even remember why. Reckon you’d be better off if you _did_ forget how to tie your shoelaces instead.” He hums, and there’s that other voice on his end again, a burble really, and Nick’s saying, “We’ll play soon, darling, Daddy’s gotta deal with the improbably disastrous love life of Uncle Harry yet again.”

A pause. “So how mad was Niall at seeing you?” Nick asks.

“Er,” Harry says. _It’s not actually Niall-from-2024 that we’re dealing with_ is not the correct answer to this question. “Very?” he guesses.

“It was a bad divorce,” Nick says.

“Everyone’s been telling me that,” Harry says. “Which don’t make sense. If it was a one-night Vegas thing, couldn’t we get a whatsit—” he fumbles for the word, “—an annulment instead? That’s when you argue the marriage wasn’t legal to begin with, right?”

“Niall tried to get an annulment,” Nick says. “Said you were both too sopping pissed to properly consent. But here’s the thing, H: you fought him on it.”

“What?” Harry asks, baffled. “Why? S’not like we had a house and two kids.”

“You fought him on _everything_ , mate,” Nick says, sounding really quite cheery about it. “You spent one night together in Vegas, ought to be the easiest annulment slash divorce in the world, but you set your lawyers on poor Niall like a pack of dogs, and you dragged the thing on for — months. _Ages_. And then you started hooking up with him on the side, and fuuuuuck.” Nick laughs. “It was better than Mum’s soaps.”

“This doesn’t sound like me at all,” Harry insists, and it _doesn’t_. Harry’s usually the first person to walk away from anything that might cause a fuss. Too much effort. Long showy fights aren’t his thing when it’s easier to simply drop difficult people from his life. But maybe future-Harry’s different, he thinks. Maybe future-Harry likes the drama. 

He looks at the bags at his feet. Decides he’d rather not ruin the day by learning about future-Harry’s mistakes. Starts telling Nick about his farmers market haul instead.

Makes it easier on both of them.

 

:::

 

The produce is so gorgeous, it gets him thinking. 

“Did you have any plans for that garden?” Harry asks. They’re standing on the sinking front porch, and Harry points to the garden, mottled, dark, damp thing that it is. 

“Not really,” Niall says. “Figured it’d be _nice_ to have something there, but there’s hardly any time for side projects. ‘Specially not when we could jump back any moment.”

“I’ll plant something then,” Harry decides.

Niall smirks at him. “Is this to get out of grape-picking duty?”

“Harvest’s almost over,” Harry says. “You told me so yourself. And since we don’t know how long we’ll be stuck here, think of all the fresh veg we could have.” He smacks his fist into his palm. “Think of turnips!”

“It’s true I probably don’t think about turnips nearly as much as I should,” Niall says blandly.

“Think of fall! Think of soups!”

“This is a truly chilling snapshot of your brain.” Niall zips up his jacket to ward off the morning wet. “Don’t think Sari or Iskander had any plans for the garden, so it’s yours. Don’t know what’s so different about this and working the fields, if all you want is to get your hands dirty.”

“Honestly?” Harry says. “I’m already sick of grapes. I’ve moved them down my list to my second least favourite fruit.”

Niall bites out a laugh. “There’s a list, is there?”

“There’s a list,” Harry says imperiously. 

He goes back into the house and does some basic googling. Fall in Australia means loads of peas, cabbages, and onions. He doesn’t let the fact that he’s never actually taken care of a garden stop him from jotting a list and borrowing Niall’s truck to once again head into Nuriootpa. At the hardware store he picks up seeds, shovels, trowels, fertilizer, mulch, stakes, and string. 

He passes a garage sale on his way out of town, and spies an old bike. He buys it for five dollars and tosses it into the back of the pickup. Niall and Sari are standing around looking at the garden when Harry comes back, and he can hear Sari shaking her head and saying, _a lot of work_ and _time better spent elsewhere_.

“Ah, hell,” says Niall, “just let him do his thing. It’ll keep him out of _your_ hair, right?”

“Well,” Sari considers, “this is true.”

“Ahem,” says Harry, and Niall looks sheepish when he turns around. Sari’s expression doesn’t change at all. Harry walks up to the garden ridge, right by the chicken coop wire, and points. “Turnips there, I reckon, and cabbages there, and onions over there, and peas and leeks. A spot over here,” he motions, “for a little herb garden too. After weeding this mess, ‘course.”

“Least he likes to keep busy,” he hears Sari remark when he goes back to the truck to unpack. “Not lazy. Not like that other boy you used to bring over.”

“I don’t think anyone’d ever get away with calling him lazy,” Niall says, while Harry wonders, _what other boy_. But a glimpse of Niall’s face shows that Niall’s as confused as he is, so that must be future-Niall’s business. Something else they’ve yet to discover.

Sari’s gone by the time Harry wheels the bike over. “Shoot,” he says once he kickstands it up, “didn’t remember to buy a lock.”

“Here? Doubt you’ll need one,” Niall says. “Just lean it by the fence, no one’ll touch it.” He gets on his haunches and peers at the frame. “Flat tire, though.”

“I’m fairly rubbish at bike-buying, aren’t I,” Harry says. “Thought it might be nice for a workout. All these hills. Lovely roads.”

“You just like the image of yourself tra-la-laing all over the countryside, don’t you, Hamberto,” Niall says. “Like something out of a French film. Going to the market, riding around with a baguette.”

“There’s no basket for Hamberto to put a baguette, Niall, be _sensible_ ,” Harry says. “I think I saw a pump in the attic. I’ll figure it out later.” 

He leaves the old bike by the fence while he brings the rest of his gardening supplies into the house. Niall heads the opposite direction, into the fields, where Sari’s gone. Harry spends the rest of the afternoon skimming through gardening sites and taking notes. At one point towards the evening he thinks he hears someone come into the house, and a sound like the ladder to the attic’s being lowered, but he’s too immersed in his research to find out.

Sun’s setting and he bumps into Niall in the hallway. “Iskander’s got an issue with the stemmer-crusher, gotta help him out,” Niall says, looking harried. “Won’t be back until late.” 

“I’ll save you dinner,” Harry promises. He’s thinking stir-fried eggplant.

It’s full dark when he heads out to the garden, trying to plan his next steps for tomorrow. In the distance he can see the lights still on in the winery; Niall and Iskander still working. A Chevy drives down the road past him, kicking up a spray of pebbles; that’ll be Rachel and Marame leaving. Harry crouches and pokes at the soil, smells it. Then gets up and checks again on his bike, just in case there’s something else horribly wrong with his five dollar purchase that he’s missed. 

It looks alright, nothing he can’t take care of, except when he squeezes the wheels to see what he’s working with here, they bounce back against his fingertips, full of air.

 

:::

 

He rattles along the Barossa roads in the mornings, biking the swells of the land: up and down, and up and down. Catches a glimpse of other towns, other vineyards, but no matter where he goes the familiar sight of wooden posts, trellises, and grapevines. 

He always gets back in time to catch Niall stumbling out of bed, not quite the morning person Harry is. Harry does him a mercy by starting the coffee and putting the kettle on, getting both tea and coffee ready, because Niall’s tastes aren’t like Harry’s. They’re not so set. Harry’s the kind of person who’ll go to a restaurant and order the same thing every time, but Niall, Niall’s always in the mood for something different. Some mornings he wants a shot of bold caffeine and other days he wants Irish Breakfast with two creams and a sugar. Harry makes sure it’s all ready to go.

They still don’t talk much during meals. Niall’s a droopy petunia prone to staring out the window, and Harry doesn’t know what to say to him. There’s a shell around Niall that was never there when they were younger.

“What’re you thinking about?” Harry asks him bluntly one morning, antsy with the silence, taking apart his toast with his knife.

“What?” Niall’s head snaps back. “Oh. Uh. Fermentation.”

The harvest’s done, they’ve crushed the grapes, and now they’re processing everything through primary fermentation, is Harry’s understanding of the matter. When he asks Niall about it, Niall rattles off something about adding wild yeasts into the must to turn sugar into alcohol, and then having to adjust the sugar, and the acid, and the pH, which requires a dozen tools and a dozen readings every day, all of which sounds unpleasantly like secondary school chemistry lessons. 

Niall’s brain is off in wine-land. Harry gives up on trying to bring it back. He has his new garden to keep him occupied, anyway. He throws on a pair of shorts and a band tee from Niall’s closet, removes his rings, and gets to the business of weeding. Everything’s choked up in the soil, rocks and weeds with every handful, remnants of what it might’ve once been. Harry yanks at it pretty much indiscriminately. 

Lunch is always at noon, every day, and it’s something to look forward to, to keep an eye on his watch for. They all eat together, everyone on the farm, huddled outside. Harry usually arrives to Niall helping Sari bring out big trays of food and pitchers of iced tea. Sari seems to have decided that Godfrey is another acceptable kitchen assistant, and there he is, tripping and trapping, nearly dropping his tray of sandwiches.

Harry tends to sit next to Godfrey, because it amuses him, and because he can see it makes Niall laugh. Godfrey eventually learns to stop knocking things over when Harry’s around. When they start chatting, Harry finds out Godfrey’s decided to go to school to study botany.

Harry fires a dozen garden-related questions at him. Godfrey rallies admirably and answers them. Recommends a few websites that Harry ought to check out.

Then back to work. More weeding. Plotting out the garden grid. Stakes and string. Turning the soil, removing the roots. Manure. Compost. Raking it all over to get it ready for seeding. Dropping in the seeds. Watering.

Waiting. 

No stranger to waiting anymore, is he. 

 

:::

 

Twin Boughs’ distribution manager comes for dinner later that week. Her name’s Samantha Azevedo, she’s flying in from Sydney, and it’s plain to see that Niall’s nervous about her arrival. It’s one more person he’s got to convince that he’s really, actually future-Niall, the man in charge. “Never met her in person before,” Niall tells Harry. “Always phone calls and emails.”

The solution seems obvious. “Invite Iskander and Sari to join you,” Harry suggests. “If there’s anything you don’t know, they will.”

“You think I’ve not tried?” Niall says. “They’ve both conveniently got plans.” He makes a face. “Don’t think they like getting involved in the sales side of things.”

“How bad can it be?” Harry asks. “’s not an office meeting. It’s dinner. Wine and dine her, Horan. Flash your pearly whites and make nice.”

“Same goes for you,” Niall retorts. “Cos if you got other plans, cancel ‘em.”

Harry can’t imagine what other plans he might have, but it’s always nice to be pursued, even if he’s fairly sure Niall’s joking. “Aye-oh, captain,” he says. “What should we cook for her?”

He ends up scouring the internet and making lemon herb salmon with zucchini, charred eggplant and walnut pasta salad (both he and Niall are pasta _masters_ ), and a big pot of cauliflower soup seasoned with Indian spices. Niall leaves at four o’clock when Harry’s started cooking to pick Samantha up from the airport. He comes back at seven-thirty, and Harry’s got most of it up on the table, unwinding the scarf from his hair to dab at his own sweaty forehead.

“Hullo,” he says, striding forward to shake Samantha’s hand. “‘m Harry. How was the flight? Not too tired to eat, I hope?” He dimples and looks her right in the eye, phasers set to stun.

Samantha’s a small woman in tall heels. She laughs and gives him a firm handshake. “Thought Mr. Horan was joking when he said Harry Styles was making dinner for us.” So she’s not going to pretend she doesn’t know who he is. Probably that’s for the better. Less dancing around. 

“The pudding’s the last thing to get done, and then let’s eat,” he hums. “Lemme go check on it.” He ducks back in the kitchen, listening to Niall offer to pour Samantha a drink.

“Hope you like wine,” Niall’s saying, followed by a nervous laugh. Harry winces as he pulls the blueberry pudding out of the oven.

Niall comes into the kitchen. “Ugh,” he says, “I sound so fatheaded.”

Harry sets the pudding on a rack to cool. “She’s _your_ distribution manager. _You_ pay her salary. So what if she’s not impressed by you? Nothing’s gonna change.” He leans against the counter and looks at Niall in his brown cashmere jumper and neat slacks. He looks so soft, Harry thinks, and stares because Niall’s popped the top two buttons on the shirt beneath the jumper, and Harry can see some curls of chest hair.

“Yeah,” Niall says. He notices Harry staring. 

Harry plays it off by doing a twirl. “How do I look? Presentable enough?” When Niall says nothing, Harry drops his arms to his sides. “Lemme guess. Shouldn’t have worn the shirt with the narwhals on it?” It’s one of the favourite items he’s found in future-Harry’s closet, a silk Moschino piece, a proud member of Harry’s collection of clothing with tiny animals on it. 

Niall huffs a soft laugh. “Are you kidding? Harry, don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but every time I picture you, _unless directly contradicted_ , I’m assuming you’re wearing a shirt with narwhals on it.” He steps forward. “No, it’s just—” flappy hands, “—don’t need your nips hanging out, do ya?”

He does up two of Harry’s buttons. Harry stands very still, listening to Niall breathe. Niall retreats and then shakes his head. Steps back in and undoes them. “Never mind,” he says. “Actually, your way might work better.”

Their eyes meet over the tops of Niall’s glasses, and a shock wiggles through Harry’s spine, because he has Niall’s undivided attention, and it’s like they’re really seeing each other for the first time in — ages. Seeing each other beyond the parts they play in this bizarro future. Harry realizes he doesn’t know what to do with this knowledge. 

“Mr. Horan?” Samantha’s calling from the sitting room, and Niall steps back quickly.

“Can’t forget our guest,” Harry coughs. He composes himself and follows Niall out. Tonight’s for impressing the woman who makes sure all the work they’ve been doing at the vineyard and the winery doesn’t go to naught, that Twin Boughs sells. Niall guides her to the kitchen table, pulls out her chair, and pours her some of last year’s shiraz, chatting about the end of the harvest and how they’re starting second fermentation, and despite some mechanical difficulties, have been jogging along nicely. 

“Does it seem like it’ll be a good year?” Samantha asks frankly. 

Niall nods. “Absolutely. Sari says she’s happy with the way the grapes turned out. Great weather this year.”

“You joined us back in May, right? I’m trying to remember.” Total bullshit, but she’s smiling kindly. “This would be your first harvest?”

“Yeah,” says Niall, seizing the rope she’s throwing him. “Mostly Sari and Iskander bark, and I run around getting them what they need.”

“Iskander barks? That fellow can hardly raise his voice to scare a mosquito.”

“Well, I wasn’t gonna single Sari out, but if you’re putting me back to the wall…” Niall’s voice slides into a tease. 

“The twins of Twin Boughs,” she muses. “You _should_ listen to them. They’re seasoned pros. But, and I’ve had this talk with them before so don’t think I’m making it up, Mr. Horan — they _like_ having an owner around. Like it when they don’t have to make all the decisions, especially the tough ones, on a farm that’s not their own.” She takes a napkin Harry offers her and tucks it over her lap. “There’s opportunities, a need even, for strong leadership at Twin Boughs.”

Niall goes from relieved to anxious again. Harry can see the switch and takes that as his cue to whip covers off bowls and get everyone eating. He makes sure both Samantha and Niall’s wine glasses are full at all times, which in his experience is usually the single most determining factor of dinner party success. As they eat he makes sure to loudly tell Samantha stories of him and Niall on the road with the band, safe stories from happier days, and the dumb shit they did, making sure that if anyone needs to be the punchline in a tale, it’s him.

Niall gives him a look across the table that Harry can’t place until he realizes it’s gratitude. 

Samantha looks between them and says, “If you’re worried that I’m going to tweet or snapchat this, or mention that Harry’s here, don’t worry.” She helps herself to more soup. “You’re my boss, Mr. Horan. I don’t share details of your personal life.”

“That’s — ah, great,” Niall says. “Because Harry’s my — personal life. Very personal.” Harry kicks him underneath the table. Niall rolls his eyes. “Huge pain in my arse, he is. But he did make dinner, so I put up with him.”

“Do you cook much, Harry?” Samantha asks him. 

“Loved helping my mum in the kitchen as a kid,” Harry says truthfully. “She was fond of buying cookbooks, had a whole shelf. I liked looking at them, ‘specially before bed. They were like my bedtime stories. The pictures were always so grownup and beautiful, like a feast for a fairy princess.” He shrugs and smiles at her. “But I don’t actually cook very much. Cooking for one’s so dull.”

Samantha takes another mouthful of wine. “Cooking for two’s the best ratio,” she says. “Cooking for yourself hardly seems worth it, like you said, but now that I have kids, cooking’s gone back around into drudgework again.” She laughs. “Throw some pizza in the oven and be done with it. I’m a horrible mum.”

“Nah,” Niall says. “Was raised on pizza dinners, me, and I turned out alright.”

“Niall turned out alright,” Harry intones seriously. “Look at his adorable pizza-fed face.”

“Oi, did I ask for input from the peanut gallery?” Niall says. “No, I did not.”

“Those white, white teeth of his,” Harry says. “Could only get so strong from the calcium of years of pizza cheese.”

Niall cracks up into his wine glass.

Dinner goes well, Harry reckons. He and Niall figure out a rhythm and settle into a tag team of jokes, funny stories, and questions about Samantha’s work and her family. They ply her with Twin Boughs wine, and by the end of the night she’s laughing more than any of them, sharing stories about her son’s new preschool and the head teacher she’s sure she saw clipping her toenails on the train. Harry gets wine-flushed and undoes another button of his narwhal shirt, which makes both of them laugh. 

The only tense part of the night’s when Samantha leans over and tells Niall that actually she’s a big fan (“oh, of you too, Harry, but mostly Niall if we’re being honest”, and Harry accepts defeat graciously). 

“Any plans to start making music again?” Samantha asks, weaving in her chair. “You were _so_ good.”

Harry sees Niall’s expression. He immediately whips out his phone and shows her a photo of Hiba Zayn sent a few days ago where she’s trying to put crayons in her hair. If wine doesn’t work to diffuse a party, adorable children will. He knows all the tricks.

Past midnight and Niall calls a cab to take her to her hotel in town. Harry starts clearing the dishes as Niall walks Samantha to the door, makes sure she has her bags, and helps her into the cab. When Niall returns, he lends Harry a hand, loading the dishwasher and wiping down the table. He yawns and tries to hide it in a fist. He looks even softer than ever, Harry thinks, rumpled hair and sleepy eyes, Irish accent growing thicker the tireder he gets. I’ve had sex with you in this future, Harry thinks, and his fingers tighten around the washcloth.

“Thanks,” Niall says. “Reckon that didn’t blow up in our faces. She liked you.”

“Lots of people like me,” Harry replies, and Niall smiles. 

“True enough,” he says. “‘m going to bed now. G’night.”

Harry’s tired enough to drop straight into sleep, but he doesn’t. After washing up he crawls into bed, where the moonlight’s aglow through the curtains. He tucks the duvet under his arms and scrolls through the folders on his phone, looking for the video from when future-him and future-Niall got married. He’s watched it so many times that he hardly needs to see it again, but.

August 2022. They’re tipsy and giggly, Harry somehow handsy even when his right hand’s holding up his phone to film them. The camera keeps slipping and shaking; it’s almost too dizzying to watch. _We gotta com-com-commemorate this moment_ , he’s saying. _Say hi for future-us, Niall_.

 _Okay, when I walked into this hotel tonight, I was_ not _expecting to run into you,_ Niall says, scarlet and sweaty the way he gets when he drinks too much but doesn’t have Liam to make him stop. 

_Yeah but we had a good time, didn’t we?_ Harry’s near pouting. _With the — the slot machines and the — um, swans and the — giant Bieber blowup_.

 _Yeah_ , Niall says. _But still. Weren’t expecting you to bloody drag me to the Elvis chapel. Is this what people do in Vegas? Thought it was only, like, in movies._

 _Yes, it’s absolutely what everyone does in Vegas_ , Harry says, and sticks his nose in Niall’s armpit. _Niall James Horan, I haven’t seen you in so long. Will you marry me?_

_You twat, we just did._

_Oh yeah._

What a pair of dumb, drunk fucks, Harry thinks, thinking of what Nick said came after. He watches the video twice more before falling asleep. 

 

:::

 

Niall disappears with Samantha for the next three days; if they’re not out inspecting the wine vats, they’re holed up in his office on calls to distributors and PR people and other important folk who cradle the success of Twin Boughs shiraz in their mysterious, faraway hands. Harry makes them veggies and dip to keep their energy up, puts on a pot of coffee in the mornings and a second one at noon.

Left on his lonesome, he tends his garden. Not that there’s much to do, really, in the initial days after planting. The weeding’s done, and he’s already mulched the soil and laid out the plots. The fence around the garden’s coming apart, so he goes into town and buys wiring for a new one, wrestling with it for the better part of an afternoon. It looks scraggly, once he’s unrolled it and hammered it to the ground, but it’ll keep wild animals out; it’ll do.

Armed with his watering can, Harry prowls the seedlings like Napoleon inspecting his troops.

If nothing else, it’s nice to look at the garden and daydream about what’s to come. In the evenings when Niall and Samantha disappear to a business dinner in Adelaide, Harry likes to take his dinner outside. The porch’s no good to sit on (he’s unconvinced it won’t simply fall apart any second), but he’ll haul a lawn chair to the edge of the garden, twist open a bottle of oaky wine, slip on his headphones, open Spotify, and give himself a 2024 musical education. 

He sees Sari walking by the house one evening. and offers up a wave. Harry expects her to wave back and keep on, but she doesn’t. She veers off-course and heads towards him. He removes his headphones and gently deposits his plate of leftover stir-fry on the grass.

“What are you growing?” she asks, peering at the garden. Harry tells her, a bit afraid she’ll tell him he’s done everything wrong and it’ll all go tits-up, but she nods. 

They stand there silently, admiring Harry’s garden. Or, at least Harry hopes that’s what they’re doing, in the absence of Harry bollocksing it up. Sari slaps at a mosquito that’s landed on her arm, and Harry rummages through the bag at his feet and offers up bug spray. 

Sari sprays herself quickly and efficiently. They go back to standing side by side in silence.

“So,” Harry says.

“I am worried,” Sari begins. She pauses, trying to figure out her words. Or maybe she’s noticed something horribly amiss in Harry’s fence-raising. Either way, it takes her a moment before she continues. “I am worried that you overheard me talking to Mr. Horan, and think it is my place to tell you whether restoring the old Brodart garden is a good use of time.” She looks stern. “Sometimes, as Iskander tells me, I have too many opinions about other people’s business.”

“Oh!” says Harry, caught off guard. “Don’t worry about it. I realize it might be a tad — strange for you guys, that I’ve just — shown up here and it looks like I’ll be staying for a while.”

“You are Mr. Horan’s houseguest,” Sari says. “He can invite whoever he wants to stay with him, for however long he wants.” 

Now Harry’s dying of curiosity. “I did overhear you.”

“Oh,” Sari echoes.

What the hell, might as well ask. “You said — well. Has Niall had stayover guests before?” 

“Yes,” Sari replies shortly, seemingly relieved that Harry isn’t about to call her out for her nosiness. He’d rather they be insufferably nosy together. “His father back in October. A man before that.” Her face shifts into annoyance, remembering it. “A man who followed Mr. Horan everywhere like a moonstruck calf and wanted me and Iskander to wait on him, as if that were our jobs.” 

Harry makes an encouraging sound, his entire body language primed to _yes, tell me more about Niall’s ex-boyfriends and how awful they were._

“He was so—” Sari cuts herself short. “No, what am I doing? This is also not my business.” She straightens. “I will see you another time. Keep up the garden. It looks… sufficient.”

Harry watches her go. She stops by the fence and turns around. “I will say, however—” she hesitates, and then seems to make up her mind. “When Mr. Horan first came to us, I thought he carried with him the burden of a deep unhappiness.”

“And now?” Harry can’t help but ask, because it’s fascinating. Someone who knows future-Niall when Harry doesn’t at all.

“Well, he has hit his head and lost a large chunk of his memory of the last several years,” she replies, “so I rather think he has different burdens to carry now.”

“Ah.” Harry struggles not to laugh. “Fair point.”

“Indeed.”

“He’s trying,” Harry says. “To be of use. He works quite hard.”

“This I know,” Sari says, and they’re both quiet for the next few minutes, toeing the garden, mutually contemplating the many guises of Niall Horan, past, present, and (unbeknownst to one of them) future. 

 

:::

 

The old Brodart house has its many charms (century old pipes, inhumanly squeaky hinges, and leaky roof, to name a few), but chief among them is the unforgivable crime that most of its walls are painted pastel pink. Harry feels like he’s living in a giant cotton candy puff, so he decides his next project, after he’s set up the garden, is to remedy the paint situation ASAP.

Niall’s in Adelaide with Samantha, meeting business partners. Harry stands in the middle of the Nuriootpa hardware store and texts him possible paint swatches.

 _Huh ?_ is the reply.

 _oh good_ , Harry writes. _i’m glad we’re on the same page_. Niall won’t have an opinion anyway. He remembers this from tour. Niall’s such a _bloke_. He’s useless at colour matching. 

Harry picks the colours he likes best and sets up in the house, starting with the sitting room. He shoves all the furniture away from the walls, covers the ground with plastic sheets, and masks the edges of the baseboards. There’s some holes in the walls from old paintings and such that he spackles. Then, with a bucket of water and a dab of solution, he gives the walls a scrub and waits for them to dry. 

Painting’s soothing. If he really did have a doppelganger, maybe this is what he would’ve done. Summer job when he’s off uni, painting other people’s houses for extra cash. He slides on his headphones, fitting them around the houndstooth scarf he’s donned to cover his hair. His rings go on the coffee table for safekeeping, and he spends the afternoon wielding his paint roller while dancing around to various playlists Zayn keeps sending him, standing on his toes every time he needs to reach the ceiling. 

_Wait_ , Niall texts. _what colours DID u pick . . . ? !_

Harry wipes his hands and sends him the kissy face emoji, a thumbs up, and the nail-painting emoji.

The sun’s setting when there’s a knock on the screen door. Godfrey’s wee precious face looms on the other side. “Hi,” he says when Harry answers. “Couple of us are gonna grab drinks in town. Did you, um, wanna join us?”

Considering the alternative’s another night of eating dinner by himself whilst watching reruns of _Heartbreak High_ , the answer is hell yes. There’s six of them heading out, and only five spots in Rachel’s car. Niall’s taken his truck to Adelaide, so Harry tells the gang he’ll ring a cab and meet them at the bar. Godfrey texts him the address. 

Which is how Harry finds himself crammed into a booth at a Irish pub with a good majority of Twin Boughs’ grapepickers and miscellaneous other staff. He’s squashed between Godfrey and Cat, and on the other side are Rachel, Mareme, and D-Man. Some of them are clearly surprised to see him there, and clam up whenever he so much as glances sideways at them, but that’s what the alcohol’s for, isn’t it. He buys the first round and orders a giant plate of nachos.

Nacho diplomacy. It’s never failed him before.

Three drinks in, fingers shiny with oily cheese, and everyone’s a lot looser. He makes a game of it, trying to figure out what every person’s most passionate about, and then waits until the gates open and they’re yakking his ear off about it. Harry likes to think that he’s perfected his listening with intent face, which Louis once accused him of looking way too much like his flirty face: chin down, eyes up, slow twang, affirmative noises at strategic intervals.

Rachel’s easy to suss out. She’s the prickliest of the bunch, the most outwardly distrustful of why Harry wants to drink with them, but she’s also a doctoral student, and Harry just has to say the word ‘thesis’ and she’s off to the races, talking about her biochemistry research. Mareme’s another gimme; Niall helped him with this one earlier by mentioning her son. Godfrey’s easy to bond with, since he already has a crush on Harry and plus they can commiserate over being farm newbies together (“so many callouses,” Godfrey moans, “so many.”) 

Cat and D-Man are harder to crack. They’ve both been with Twin Boughs for years, coming back every harvest. D-Man’s cripplingly shy, barely making eye contact with anyone at the table, but then Harry remembers that he’s an art teacher during the regular year. Harry asks him about the classes he’s taught at the community rec centre. D-Man confesses to at him at one point, late in the night when the ale’s gone to his head, that he’s not sure his fingers’ll be nimble enough to pick grapes for another year. “Getting old,” he says in his papery voice.

Middle-aged Cat’s the bubbliest of the workers, queen bee, Godfrey’s aunt, the one everyone likes best. She’s got a laugh like scraping open a champagne bottle with one of those tools sommeliers use; Harry can practically hear it go pop, even when he scoots across the pub to use the loo. Maybe it’s _because_ she’s so chatty that it’s obvious she feels weird about Harry being there, because her enthusiasm when talking to him’s nowhere near what she has for the others. 

What he and Cat have in common, he figures out last, when it’s almost midnight and they’re all hanging off the table in various states of sozzled. Cat’s fond of Niall.

Harry, coming back from his third trip to the loo (tiny bladder, he blames the Styles gene pool), hears Godfrey say, indiscreetly, “I think it’s good they’re making up. When you read all those things on Twitter about their divorce — s’nice to know it’s not as nasty as people make it look.”

Harry hangs back to listen. Not creepily, he tells himself. _Observantly_. 

“Making up,” Rachel snorts, “or making _out_? ‘Cause the last thing Twin Boughs needs is a bunch of celebrities fucking it up with their drama.”

“What would you know about what Twin Boughs needs?” Cat asks airily. “This is your first season with us.”

“‘m just sayin’,” Rachel retorts. “Horan’s soft for him. When he leaves — and yeah, I’ve read the tabloids too, you bet he’ll leave —, it’s gonna fuck it up for all of us. Horan barely knows what he’s doing anyway, and that was _before_ he hit his head. Don’t need an ex hanging around to make it worse.”

“That’s unfair to him,” Cat argues. “Sure, he’s new and managed to injure himself—”

“Ha!”

“Let me finish,” Cat says. “But compare that to Martha Brodart who was literally _senile_ at the end, and shit, man, Horan’s the best owner this winery’s had in ages.”

“Bullshit,” says Rachel.

“Iskander says he and Sari _both_ like him,” Cat says, winding up. “Name one problem we’ve had that he’s not immediately tried to fix. _And_ he upped our pay. _And_ covered our meals. _And_ renovated the cottages.”

“He’s paying for my childcare,” Mareme murmurs, after a sip of her drink. “So me and my husband can both work during the day.”

D-Man, even more softly, adds, “He says he’ll cover chiro for me, if I want to go.”

Rachel’s jaw snaps shut. “Okay, I didn’t know that,” she says. “Didn’t know he was _Saint Horan_ , after all.” She swallows a long drag of her pint. “I guess that changes things then.”

Cat looks up, sees Harry watching them. Her face goes slack. Colour rises along the swells of her cheeks. But then she pulls herself together, smiles wryly, and gives Harry an exaggerated wink. “Thanks, mate,” he says when he slides into the booth beside her. “One more beer for the both of us?”

“Bring it, Styles,” she says.

He’s pleasantly pissed when the pub closes at two a.m. and they’re all chucked to the curb, Rachel and Mareme stumbling off in the direction of their apartments in town. Of those who’re left, D-Man’s holding onto Cat trying to stand upright, and Godfrey’s parked his arse on the sidewalk to smile dopily up at the stars. “Are they different where you come from?” he asks dreamily. 

“Depends,” Harry reflects. “Where’d you think I come from?”

“Hollywood.” Godfrey giggles, and then hiccups. “Beautiful people factory.”

“Mm,” Harry says, “not quite.” He finds his mobile in his pockets and has the bright idea that one of them should call a cab back to the vineyard. But his thumb slips, sort of (not at all) and he dials Niall instead.

“Nialler!” he announces when Niall picks up. “You back from Adelaide yet?”

“Er, yeah,” Niall says. “Just dropped Samantha off at her hotel and got in the house.” Harry can hear him moving about, landing his keys on a table. “Where’re you? Are you pissed?” A suspicious pause. “Is that _Godfrey_ I hear?”

“He’s so young and im-im-impressionable,” Harry slurs. “Better come get us before I do anything _untoward_ to him.” Godfrey looks delighted at the prospect of Harry doing anything untoward to him. Harry smirks. “Cat and D-Man’re here too. We need lifts back to the farm, Niall. We need liiiifts.”

“It’s late, Harry,” Niall groans, “and I’ve already driven for hours today. Call a cab.”

“Nuh uh,” Harry says. “We’re _your_ responsibility. _You_ call a cab.”

“Jesus,” Niall says. “Where’re you?”

“Town.” Harry cocks his head. 

“Nuriootpa?”

“Yeah,” Harry smiles. “That one. We’re standing in front of the Irish pub right now. Irish, like you.”

“Jesus,” Niall repeats. “Fine. Gimme fifteen minutes, and _don’t wander_.” 

“Niall’s coming,” Harry says to the others, and they all break into raggedy cheers. 

“Shh, shh, shh,” Cat says. “We’re being too — too loud.” She bursts into laughter, which is more or less indicative of the state Niall finds them in when he shows up in his truck. They’ve been waiting for only a few minutes, Harry thinks, or they’ve been waiting for _years_. Can’t tell anymore.

“Maybe I ought to have called a cab,” Niall says, looking at them. “Occurs to me now. There’s four of you, and this is a two-seater.” He looks guilty.

“Nah, s’all good,” Godfrey says. “We’ll fit in the — the back of the truck. What’s it called?”

“Truck bed’s what I call it,” says Cat.

“Yeah,” Godfrey nods eagerly. “Truck bed. Place to _sleep_.” He proceeds to try and climb onto it, and slips off instead. Niall, looking more and more alarmed, gets out and helps him up. 

“Do y’wanna sit in the front?” he asks D-Man.

“No,” D-Man says, “Mr. Harry can sit with you.” He grabs Cat’s hand and clamours onto the back of the truck. Harry shrugs and gets into the seat beside Niall, who’s still dressed up from a day of meetings. Didn’t have time to change before Harry bothered him. In his glasses, his suit, the whites of his cuffs, he looks like a stately young politician, Harry thinks. Someone distinguished. 

He puts his head on Niall’s shoulder. Harry’s a cuddly drunk.

“You’re gonna have to move aside,” Niall says, sounding amused. “Or else I can’t drive.”

“Sure you can,” Harry says. “Just do it — super slowly.” He blinks. “There’s no one out here to see. ‘s so _quiet_.”

“Nice quiet, though, innit.” Niall nudges Harry’s head off him and turns on the engine. He pulls away from the curb, and they can hear the others bumping around gently in the back. “You guys good back there?” Niall shouts. “Hold onto something if ya need to!”

“We’re great!” Godfrey yells. “Soooo good!”

“Oh my god, keep it down, lad,” Niall mutters, and Harry giggles at that. Likes the sound of Niall sounding old-man-y and berating Godfrey. 

“‘s nice-quiet,” Harry agrees, rolling down his window to feel the air on his face. “‘s nice-town. ‘s nice-Niall.”

Nice Niall in his nice suit with his nice hair quiffed up, but starting to fall apart now after a long day, tufts of it coming down on his forehead. His hands are firm and steady on the wheel as he drives. So responsible, not like Harry who sometimes drives with one hand and barely looking. But Niall’s always been responsible, easy to rely on. His thumbs, Harry thinks, are square and wrinkly where the skin stretches over the knuckles; they look so lovely. 

Drunk-Harry thinks, _Future me’s probably had you on every piece of furniture we own_. He shivers and chews at his own knuckles, peering out the window at the moonlight coated over black trees. Niall, completely oblivious to Harry’s sudden crisis, smiling to himself and turning on the radio, continues driving. 

 

:::

 

Niall’s keeping a weather journal, on account of weather being so important in the vineyard business. He shows Harry. _Fog today_ , he’s written. _More fermentation. Harry painting kitchen_.

Harry, drunk not with alcohol this time but with home renovation power, says, “Could tackle the front porch too. Get rid of those rotting boards. Put in new ones.”

Niall mimes getting a shovel and digging.

“Oi, what’s that for?” Harry asks.

“Here lies Harry,” Niall says. “Rest in peace. He thought he was capable of patio repair.”

“I’m perfectly capable of patio repair!” Harry insists. “Helped my dad one summer when I was visiting.” Well, kind of. He brought tea to the blokes his dad hired, but he watched them all the same, fascinated by how laddy the workers were, and wondering if he’d grow up to be like that too. Half-yearned and half-hated it, his younger self obsessed with what he knew he ought to want, what all boys ought to want.

Niall says something something property values something something. Harry’s not listening, except to say, doubtfully, “Do you even know what you’re talking about?”

“Own multiple houses, don’t I?” Niall says. “In 2019 at least.”

“Yeah, but,” Harry says, “I do too, and it doesn’t mean I actually _understand_ anything about real estate. Except maybe that if you’ve got a front porch that looks like the creature from the black lagoon, that might not be so good, property value-wise.” He smiles beatifically at Niall. 

“Whatever,” Niall says, laughing. “Future-Niall’s already got his life ruined by you, go ahead and ruin my house too.”

Harry continues thinking about the porch. He finishes the kitchen and paints the upstairs bedrooms and bathrooms the next day. Waters his garden. Does some searching on the internet. Thinks some more. Wakes up the following morning to the heaviest fog yet, come down with the twilight to cloud the vineyard with wet mist. Rachel’s car, when she pulls into the driveway, scatters the light with her high beams. Harry decides not to go biking that morning; would rather not be hit because some driver couldn’t see him, thanks very much.

Niall, in a denim jacket over ripped jeans, hair ungelled, catches him slurping his porridge over breakfast and staring out the window. “Hey Goldilocks, thinking something deep?” Niall cackles. 

“Still thinking ‘bout the porch,” Harry says, mouth full. “Don’t _actually_ wanna mess it up.”

“Eh,” says Niall. “We could jump back any moment. ‘s not like I gotta live with a fucked up porch for long.”

“But then future-Niall might have to,” Harry points out. 

“Eh,” Niall says again. “That’s future-Niall’s problem. Figure he’ll be happy enough I kept up the charade of being him. He _owes_ me.”

Harry tries to imagine all the damage future-Niall and future-Harry could be doing in the past, if that’s where they are, and shudders. Some porridge dribbles out of his mouth. “Manners,” says Niall, and smacks him. Then he notices the book Harry’s resting his bowl on and snatches it. “That’s my wine encyclopedia you’re getting your gob-garbage over.”

“It’s like 800 pages,” Harry says. “You’re not seriously reading it, are you?” Even Harry, who’s always thought of himself as the bookish one of the band, wouldn’t bother.

“Keeping up the charade,” Niall replies, inspecting the book for stains. “Gotta know my wines.”

“Just by reading about them?” Harry asks. “Isn’t the best part of learning about wines the part where you get to drink them too?” He grins. “Learning’s so _dry_ otherwise.”

“Ha,” Niall says, “nice one.” Harry holds out his hand for a low-five and Niall smacks his palm. 

“I’ll help you,” Harry says grandly. “Don’t mind a trip into town to buy different types of wine from the book.” He smiles his most angelic smile. “I’ll try to avoid buying wines from our bitterest rivals. Only the not-so-bitter rivals.”

“Nah, don’t bother,” Niall says. “There’s a whole collection of different types already in the cellar. Future-Niall must’ve done the same thing.” He checks his watch. “Shit, gotta run. Driving Samantha to the airport so she can go back to Sydney. But — after dinner?” He’s already moving to the door.

“You, me, educational wine party,” Harry says. “It’s a—” he’s about to say date, but his tongue flops over it. “—thing” he finishes lamely. 

Niall’s patting his pocket for his keys.

“Drive safe,” Harry mumbles. “Use your high beams.”

“‘Course.”

That evening Niall takes him to the cellar for the first time, where Twin Boughs ages its wine. He’s never been before. He knows where it is: beneath the winery, through a door in the back (a dumbwaiter if you’re moving wine barrels), but it’s never been his place to poke around. Niall flicks on the lights as they take the steps, his hand outstretched to catch Harry when he wobbles on the narrow stairs. Harry slides him a glance. Niall blinks and then looks away.

“So this is it,” he says, tucking his hand into his pocket. Harry looks around. It’s very deep underground, is his first thought. The century-old cellar’s been cut into the earth and with its stone walls and soft dirt floors, reminds him of a medieval catacomb. The air smells like wet rock and must. Barrels of wine rest on racks like sleeping giants.

“Uh, is this supposed to be here?” Harry asks, pointing at a white mold that’s clinging to several of the racks. 

“Oh yeah,” Niall says easily. “That’s cellar mold. It’s normal. Good, even. Iskander says it keeps the air fresh.”

“Hm,” Harry says, though he’s dubious. Walking around he peers at the barrels even more closely. “Oh bollocks,” he says in delight. “There’s a mushroom growing out of the dirt — a _mushroom_.” 

“Don’t eat it.”

“‘m not gonna _eat_ it, what the hell, how daft do you think I am,” Harry says. “But that’s pretty cool.” He turns on his heel to take in the whole room at once. “It’s like there’s a whole ecosystem down here. I like it.”

“Me too,” Niall admits. He walks Harry further into the cellar where there’s a rack loaded with individual bottles of wine. Not just Twin Boughs shiraz, which Harry’s had plenty of lately, but a dusty army of chardonnays, pinot gris, malbecs, moscatos, sauvignon blancs, rieslings, and damned if Harry knows what else. Niall grabs a few and hands some to Harry to carry. 

Neither of them are that deft at opening wine bottles yet. Harry always nicks himself trying to saw through the foil, and he’s seen Niall yank at the corkscrew so violently on an old vintage that the cork disintegrated and pieces of it plopped into the wine (the expression on Niall’s face, serving that to Samantha, was brilliant). But their hearts are determined and their throats are thirsty, and that evening they work their way through a bottle of sauvignon blanc while Niall reads its entry out loud from his book. 

Harry tries to pay attention to what the author’s saying, trying to taste the green or herbaceous flavours or whatever, but he’s soon distracted. 

“ _The New Zealand-influenced sauvignon blanc tends to blossom like a young tender flower with tropical fruit undertones such as citrus and passionfruit_... stop having a laugh, Hamberto, you filthy beggar.” Niall kicks Harry underneath the kitchen table. “Trying to educate meself here.”

“Soz,” Harry says, “but the way they’re talking about it. _Blossom like a young tender flower_.” He quotes earlier parts of the passage. “ _The passionate and stately pursuit of viticulture! Tasting the wine not only with your tongue but with every fiber of your being! A luscious, heaving mouthfeel!_ ” He wheezes. “Who wrote this book? Where’d you find it?”

“Iskander gave it to me.” 

“It’s not great porn, it’s _grape porn_.”

“Ugh, can’t believe you went for that one.” Harry snickers. “Some people just really, really love wine, alright? Down to their tingly parts,” Niall says, trying to keep a straight face but failing. Two glasses in and he’s pinking up, the lightweight. Must be on account of his breadstick legs. They can’t pack away alcohol the way Harry’s can. 

“Hey, hey, hey, pour me some more,” Harry demands. “Gotta properly enjoy the mouthful. Make sure it’s heavin’ enough.”

“Heave ho,” Niall says, wrist trembling as he pours one-handed.

“God, that’s sad,” Harry says. “Where’s your upper body strength?” He pokes Niall’s belly. “Future-Niall’s drunk one too many bottles of wine, yeah?”

“You hypocrite,” Niall says cheerfully. 

“What’d you mean?” Harry asks. He lifts his shirt to show off his stomach, nearly elbows his wineglass off the table. “Future-Harry’s toned as fuck. _Look_.” Niall’s not looking. 

“Not like _you_ can take credit for it, buddy,” Niall says with his gaze glued somewhere to the left of Harry’s head.

“Well, it’s like having a kid, innit?” Harry releases the hem of his shirt. “Future-Harry’s not me but I _made_ future-Harry. My genes went into him. I birthed him out of my space-time _womb_.”

“That’s a horrible mental image, oh my god,” Niall chokes. “ _Never let me think about it again_.” He covers his face with his hand. “Too late. I’m picturing a giant cosmic Harry floating in space, giving birth to like — baby planets with your face on it. And each baby planet has this big wide mouth that’s singing ‘What Makes You Beautiful.’”

Harry bursts into laughter. “You’re a sick, sick man, Niall Horan.”

“Don’t I know it.” Niall reaches over to top up his glass, props the book so both of them can see the pictures, and reads on. Harry wriggles his toes in his socks beneath the table. “The sauvignon blanc grape traces its origins to the Loire Valley and Bordeaux regions of France, which like a gracious Demeter…”

 

:::

 

He has a dream that’s not a dream, but a memory of this body. He’s suited up, hair slicked back with a tub of gel, and his boots make a sharp click on the floor as he walks, but he likes it, likes the thought of being preceded by so much sound. He’s in a courtroom (dream Harry knows this without having to be told), and he’s pushing through a crowd of law clerks discussing lunch options to get to the toilets.

Niall’s already there, washing his hands. He presses too long, too hard against the soap dispenser. It squeezes out white foam all over his fingers and onto his wrists. “Fuck,” he can hear Niall mutter, and then Niall sees Harry’s reflection behind him in the mirror, and his face goes flat like a beer sitting out in the sun.

Dream-Harry knows that their lawyers are waiting for them, that they’ve still got yards and yards of paper to go through, documents to sign. Harry’s been very careful to make sure Niall has to be here, even though Niall’s lawyers insist he doesn’t, that flying out to L.A from Australia is a time suck. That’s alright then. Niall’s lawyers can insist whatever they like; Harry’s lawyers are better.

Niall grabs a paper towel from the machine and dabs at the soap on his cuffs. _Gonna stare at me all day?_ he asks roughly.

 _Came all this way from your precious vineyard,_ Harry says. _Might as well make it worth the cost of the airfare._ And then in the dream he’s stepping forward, sliding one hand around Niall’s jaw, and kissing him. Niall yelps, but then closes his eyes. Drops the paper towel to the floor. They’re kissing, hot, frenzied, open-mouthed, when anybody might walk into the loo and see them, but Harry doesn’t care, he’s backing Niall into the sink and pressing the heated lengths of their bodies together, burying his other hand in Niall’s stiff hair. Niall groans. 

Harry wakes up. 

It’s raining. He can hear it smack against his window in loud plops. Rolling out of bed and padding to the window, he pushes the curtain aside to look at the dark trees, the moody sky. He can see a light in one of the cottages wink on and then off. He thinks of lighthouses, of ships and shores.

His body’s too jumpy to go back to bed. He checks his phone — five a.m. Only an hour and a half before he’d have gotten up anyway to bike. He throws on a jumper over his pyjama bottoms, grabs an umbrella, and heads out. 

Hoists the umbrella over his head as he inspects his garden. Uses his phone to shine light so he can see. Everything looks the same as always, just shadowy lumps of dirt. He can’t wait until things start to grow, whenever that might be, if he’ll still be around to see it. He glances at the house, where the windows are all dark, including Niall’s. Instead of heading back he starts wandering the road towards the cottages, his shoes squelching in the mud.

He likes the rain, actually. Reminds him of being a kid in Holmes Chapel, the sound of it on the roof, going to school in the mornings in wellies that were always a size too big for him, until his mum stuffed him in with extra thick wool socks. And then rain again in London, when the band was starting out, walking to the corner shop for a bag of crisps, texting Louis to see if he wants anything too. Jumping aside when a car veers round the bend and splashes up a huge puddle. A middle finger up in the air.

The only thing he doesn’t like about rain is earthworms, after, wriggling to the surface and lying on their bellies. But overall Harry’s gross bug tolerance has grown quite nicely since coming to Australia, so if nothing else, time-jumping’s at least given him that. 

Closer to the cottages, he sees the door to one of them open, and Cat’s stepping out. Hoodie thrown over her head, quick steps. She walks across a patch of grass and knocks on the door to Iskander’s cottage. Moments later Iskander appears and ushers her in.

They’re both smiling.

Hm, Harry thinks. He does a circuit around the cottages, behind the winery, and then back to the house. He’s trodding mud onto the porch when the light goes on, and Niall’s opening the screen door and yawning. “Whatcha doing?” he asks. “Sun’s not even risen yet.”

“I just saw something ve—ry interesting,” Harry replies, stretching out the word interesting until it’s got at least three more syllables than it should. “Cat paid Iskander a visit. At five o’clock in the morning.”

“Hamberto Swisher-Fipper-Aisles, you need to open your eyes,” Niall says. “Everybody knows about them. ‘s been going on for years, Sari says.”

“Has it.” Harry thinks about it. It’s rather sweet. He walks the last few steps up to the porch, and Niall comes out to join him. He’s still in his pyjamas too. “What’re you doing up?” Harry wants to know.

“You’re loud.” Niall yawns again. “Could hear you banging around downstairs. Made such a bloody ruckus it woke me.”

“Sorry,” Harry says. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Bad dream?”

“Something like that. A gift from future-Harry.” Harry presses his weight onto the planks, testing them. They make a distressed groan. “I really am gonna fix this porch. Starting today. I’ve decided.” He shakes out his umbrella, and Niall jumps back to avoid the spray. “These front steps too,” Harry adds. “Even if I bet they’ve got vipers and spiders underneath.”

“Most likely,” Niall says brightly. 

“Stairway to heaven,” Harry muses.

Niall’s smile crinkles his eyes. “Stairway to dilapidated old house.” He makes his fingers walk in the air, inching towards Harry. “Stairway to delusional home renovator.” 

“I dunno,” Harry says, propping his umbrella. “My primary school teacher wrote in my reports that I have great talent. She said I could go far in life if I put my mind to it.” 

“Nah, best keep your ambitions realistic. When I look at you, I see…” Niall squints “…future Employee of the Month at Waitrose. That’s probably what she meant.”

Harry snorts.

“It _is_ kind of a crazy old house, though,” Niall says. “If we stay here long enough, I might wanna get some professional work done.” He shakes his head. “Even the noises in the walls are like—”

“—probably rats.”

“Oh fuck, _probably_ ,” Niall says. “But it made me think the house was haunted when I first woke up here. In those first few days, when I was still trying to figure out whether I was off my rocker or not. The house made it worse.” He adds, wryly, “Bet Tommo and Payno _do_ think I’m a crazy person, the way I rung them up at the beginning.”

“Well,” Harry says, “don’t let go of your theories yet. The house could just have rats. Or it could be actually haunted. Old place like this, you don’t really know.” 

“Generations of Brodarts did live and die here,” Niall says.

“Exactly,” says Harry. “Could be a few angry spirits still knocking around. Mad about, I dunno, bad grape harvests. Cracked barrels. Improper mouthfeel.”

“These,” Niall says, looking out at the rain over the fields, “are our grapes of wrath.”

“Was that a John Steinbeck reference? Lookee at _you_.”

Niall just smirks; turns his head away to gaze at the garden. With the light streaming in from the screen door, Harry can see that there’s drops of rain on Niall’s glasses, sliding down streaky. Without even thinking about what he’s doing, Harry plucks the glasses off Niall’s face and wipes them on his jumper. When he’s done he slides them back onto Niall, tucking the ends behind Niall’s ears. 

“Oh wait,” Harry frowns, seeing the mess his jumper left, “that’s made it worse.” But his fingertips are hot from where they’d pressed against the sides of Niall’s cheeks, and Niall laughs. It’s a cautious sound.

 

:::

 

Now it really does feel like he’s waiting. It’s going to happen, he knows it, sees how Niall looks at him when he thinks Harry isn’t watching. The thoughtful weight of his gaze, the slight part of his lips. They’re working towards something that would’ve never been allowed in the band, or after, something Harry never would’ve thought he wanted, except for all the ways in which he did. Everybody’s got the things they leave behind to make it big, and maybe this was Harry’s, the thing he put away and didn’t think about.

He has all the time in the world now to think about it.

Thinks about it when the weather clears and he goes into town to order what he needs for the porch. Harry’s brought along photos and exact measurements, everything he can imagine to be useful, and between him and the patient store owner they manage to fill his order. 

The stuff’s ready the next day to pick up, and when he’s back at the vineyard, he unloads the fresh planks of wood one at a time, carrying them over his shoulder. Sweat’s staining his shirt, so he lifts it to wipe at his face, before realizing Cat and Mareme are standing there watching.

Cat hoots. “Now that’s a magazine cover right there.” 

Harry poses for them, cheeks pinched in and eyebrows drawn. It ends up looking more like duckface. 

Mareme laughs behind her hand. “Poor boy looks more like he’s going to fall over. Do you need help?”

“I’ve got this,” Harry says meaningfully. “Stronger than I look. You’ll see.”

Word gets out about what Harry’s doing, and over the morning everybody drops by to say hi to him and to get a good gawk in. Harry considers taking off his shirt and charging admission, but mostly it’s only Cat and Mareme who catcall him, and Godfrey who looks as if he’ll faint with happiness. Rachel laughs, not in a nice way, when she sees him struggle to take out a rotting plank, pulling at it so hard he falls over backwards.

“Rich people,” he hears her say to D-Man. “They’re all mad.”

Niall comes by several times to check on Harry, and to laugh at him too. “The way Cat was going on, it sounded like there was handyman porn, but it’s just some sweaty bloke who don’t know how to use a hammer. I’m disappointed.”

“Just for that, I’m gonna take every spider I find and put them in your bed.”

“Harsh, Styles,” Niall says, and trots back to work. 

Lunchtime comes around and Sari fetches Harry so that he can join everyone in the fields. Harry, who’s worked up an appetite, tears into his roast beef sandwich and coleslaw. The sun’s hot above their heads, drying out the soaked fields, and Niall’s sitting at a table with D-Man, examining his hands while D-Man looks embarrassed. “I’m really alright,” D-Man says. “Machine barely even got me.”

“You sure?” Niall lets go. “Tell me if anything else goes wrong, yeah?”

Then Godfrey interrupts them by running to his cottage and coming back with a guitar. “Wanna show you guys something I’ve been practicing.”

“Do we have to?” Rachel asks, but she hits Godfrey across the shoulder to show that she’s joking. Godfrey, face wide with pleasure, sits down and starts plucking out Scarborough Fair. 

“Been teaching myself in the evenings,” he says. “Niall’s been helping.”

“Gave you a few tips, that’s all,” Niall calls out. “The rest’s on you, mate. Er, what,” he says when Godfrey starts pushing the guitar into his hands. “What’re you doing? This is yours.”

“Play us something,” Godfrey says. Niall starts protesting, but then Cat joins in, then Iskander, and he’s cornered. Harry watches as he hoists Godfrey’s guitar on his lap. It’s an Epiphone, a beginner’s guitar — Harry used to have one himself, tucked away somewhere still in his mum’s house. A fourteenth birthday gift from his mum and Gemma, which he mostly used to impress girls like Maggie Collingwood. Niall bends over it now and tries out a few chords.

“It’s well-tuned,” he says, and Godfrey beams. 

“Why don’t you play us one of your songs?” Cat suggests, and there’s a moment when Harry holds his breath because chances are she’ll suggest a One Direction single. But: “I love ‘This Town,’” she adds, and Niall ducks his head so they can’t see his face. It’s not a promising reaction either. Harry puts down the remainder of his sandwich, stomach feeling not so good anymore. 

“I’ll play you something else,” Niall says quietly, and then he starts playing a song, a low hum starting in his throat that builds with the chords. The tune’s something acoustic, and it takes Harry a moment to place it. In his own defense, it’s not like it’s been that long since he heard it for the first time, and it’s when Niall starts singing the lyrics that Harry feels punched in the gut, because Niall’s playing one of _his_ tracks from his second album. One of future-Harry’s songs, stripped down into nothing but voice and guitar.

“ _Build me up into something I was always meant to be_ ,” Niall sings. “ _Coming down this road again and again, the gulls and the open sea_.”

People clap when Niall’s done. Most of them don’t seem to recognize anything weird about the song Niall just chose. But Godfrey knows, and Cat knows, and then Sari looks between all of them, and she knows too. “Right,” she says, “lunch is over. Back to work. Remember that we need to finish production by deadline.”

Later, Harry won’t remember much of what happens the remainder of the afternoon. He worked some more on the porch, probably. The rest of them worked in the winery. He only knows what happens after the sun’s set and Niall comes slinking into the house where Harry’s made a salad and warmed up garlic bread for dinner. They eat quickly and quietly, Harry opening his mouth every few seconds and then shutting it because Niall doesn’t look like he wants to hear what he’s got to say, but — Harry’s tired of avoiding it. He’s so tired of so many things.

“Future-Harry’s second album, huh,” he says lightly, pushing his bowl away. 

“It’s better than your first,” Niall says. Harry tries not to take offense at that, even though he thinks it’s true too. “It’s imperfect.”

“Nothing’s perfect, Niall,” Harry snaps.

“I mean that in a good way,” Niall says, equally testy. “Your first album’s so slick, I could barely hear you under it. Your second one… there’s room to grow.”

“Just cos I didn’t wanna become a folk singer like you,” Harry says, “doesn’t mean I’ve sold myself. We were five years in One Direction, for fuck’s sake. Not like any of us got stones to throw.”

“What, you think I’m ragging on One Direction?” Niall asks. “Not ashamed of the music we made. I’m _proud_ of our accomplishments.” His mouth twists into something complicated. “We were loved.”

“Don’t gotta tell me that,” Harry says shortly. “Everyone knows you loved One Direction more than any of us,” and he can hear the hiss of Niall’s breath at that, the way Niall looks like Harry’s slapped him. 

“Yeah, that’s me,” Niall says, emotionless, starting to clear the table. His hands are shaking. “Niall Horan, who loved One Direction. They’ll write that on my gravestone.”

He watches Niall stack the dishes. “I listened to your album too,” Harry says, and his voice sounds like a thing too big for the room that they’re in. Can’t make himself stop. Doesn’t want to. “Both of ‘em. Yours and future-Niall’s. They’re _great_. I told you that already about your first one when it came out, but your second one, it’s—” he fishes for the right words, “—it’s everything I knew you could become.”

“Hamberto’s opinion does mean the most to me,” Niall says flippantly, throwing salad tongs back into the bowl, and oh, Harry gets angry at that. If he wasn’t already before, he is now, anger like a branch snapping off a tree. 

“Forgive me for not being a musical purist like you,” he says. “I didn’t realize liking your music was a _crime_.”

“Well, you’ve always liked to be ornery,” Niall says behind clenched teeth. “‘Course you’d like my second one when the reviews were all — lukewarm as dishwater.”

“So what?” Harry argues, ire rising at Niall’s ridiculous self-pity. “Didn’t we used to have a laugh whenever some uppity critic slammed 1D, and they did it all the time. What do those dumbfucks know?”

“C’mon, Harry.” Niall’s voice gets louder. “Don’t need your pity. This isn’t like with 1D.”

“Yeah, cos your solo’s stuff even better than One Direction,” Harry hisses. “What about this makes you think it’s pity? Can’t I genuinely be a Niall Horan fan?”

“No, because I know _you don’t give a shit_ ,” Niall says. “Everything that comes out of your mouth is — it’s so goddamn condescending, haven’t you ever heard yourself? Even if you don’t mean to, it’s like—” he slams an empty mug on the table, “everything’s so calculated with you these days.”

Harry’s skin burns. “What the fuck would you know about who I am these days? You don’t even wanna talk to me anymore.”

“Cos talking to you’s like talking to a _blank wall_.” Niall’s on his feet. “Nothing’s real there. Who’s gonna hold their breath waiting around for that?”

And Harry, seeing red, lunges across the table. _Nothing’s real, nothing’s real_. Knocks over bowls, cups, cutlery, sends them crashing to the ground. Grabs Niall by the collar and hauls him in. Niall’s face is sharp and wild, and he’s chanting under his breath, “what’re you gonna do, hit me? Go on then, see if you fucking dare.” 

But Harry doesn’t hit him, and Niall’s gasping into his mouth at the kiss, this thing they’ve been waiting for, his hands coming up to clutch at Harry’s shoulders.

Harry moves around the table, sidesteps the cracked mess, grabs Niall by the arse, and bites into the kiss. He’s not gentle at all. He can feel the puffs of air through Niall’s nostrils, he’s breathing heavily like a bull, but the sound Niall makes when Harry deepens the kiss, licking into Niall’s mouth, is — it’s angry and turned on both. Niall’s kissing back, fingers digging into the nape of Harry’s neck, crushing the hairs there, and Niall’s breathing is, god, it’s so loud now, devolving into a whimper that immediately makes Harry fatten up in his pants.

He’s not afraid to let Niall feel him as they kiss, pushing his hips against Niall’s, showing him how hard he’s become, just from this, just from kissing. Niall groans, head lolling on his shoulders as Harry kisses his stubbled jaw, his chin, his throat, mapping out new territory, leaving a conqueror's trail of bruises. 

When he’s done to his satisfaction, he tips Niall’s chin up for another kiss, spit mixing together, tongue and teeth, everything about the way they’re coming together screaming sloppy. It’s not the way Harry usually goes about these things. Harry’s a gentleman, always firmly in control of himself. Either that or he’s bored. Passion’s something they sing about to sell albums. But then again, he’s never had Niall under his hands before, beneath his fingernails, and Harry feels feverish with it, desperate for reasons he hardly understands. 

“I wanna know,” he says, voice hoarse and deep, pressing kisses onto Niall’s mouth over and over again, “what future-Harry lost his head over.”

“Yeah? I wanna know what future-me was such a slag for.” Niall’s grip tightens around Harry’s neck to pull him closer. “This, apparently.” 

Yeah, this. Harry started this, he’s got the upper hand, and he likes it that way. Wants to make Niall acknowledge every inch of him. He wants Niall to _know_ who he’s with, who he’s about to fuck — and they’ll be fucking soon if Harry has anything to say about it. His one hand continues grabbing Niall’s arse to pull them flush. His other hand he slides up Niall’s threadbare t-shirt, feeling the warmth of him, the silk of his skin. His nails catch on the sprinkle of Niall’s chest hair, then down to the cut of his hips.

He can’t get enough. Harry, who’s always been able to pull away from a kiss, can’t stop kissing Niall. He glances down only to make sure they’re not about to step on any glass, and then he crowds Niall against the nearest wall. “God,” Niall says, eyes dark, as his back hits the wall and Harry’s on top of him, demanding another kiss, until he swipes his tongue over his teeth and all he can taste is Niall. 

Harry slots his knee between Niall’s legs, gives him something to grind against. Niall shudders and doesn’t take the bait, so Harry slides his knee up slowly, until he’s pressing it directly against the tent in Niall’s jeans. Niall’s legs shake, and Harry smiles into his mouth.

The easy thing is, his body knows what to do, how to make Niall weak. Future-Harry’s body has done this to Niall before, and there’s a weird moment where Harry feels — he doesn’t even know. Jealous of himself? But then Niall’s knees are giving out and he’s sliding to the floor, and Harry goes with, lying full-length on top of Niall, pinning him to the carpet with his weight. He takes off Niall's glasses. They’re both breathing quick and shallow.

“Gonna let me have you?” Harry whispers, popping the button on Niall’s jeans. He shoves the jeans down Niall’s thighs as far as they can go, pulls his Calvin Kleins along with them, and runs his finger down Niall’s dick, red and blood-warm in the thicket of his dark pubes. Just a skim, a tease. Niall screws his eyes shut.

“The other way around,” he says, and surprises Harry by rearing up and rolling him over. They hit the floor again, and his elbows form a cage around the sides of Harry’s head. He leans in to suck Harry’s bottom lip into his mouth, noses bumping together, his five o’clock shadow a delicious burn on Harry’s jaw. Harry arches up into him, overwhelmed, bracing his knees around Niall’s waist. He lets Niall ruin him with deep, messy kisses.

Then Niall’s sitting up, and he’s peeling off his shirt and kicking off the tangle of his jeans and pants. Harry’s mouth waters at Niall’s plump cock bobbing in the air, at his bollocks big enough to burst. He leans up on his elbows to get his own kit off, but Niall pins him with a stare. “Don’t,” he says, and Harry gasps, falls back down.

A flushed, naked Niall crawls on top of him and curls his fingers in Harry’s hair, uses that to pull Harry to him. The muscles of Harry’s neck tense as he follows, meeting Niall for another biting kiss. Niall lets go of him as abruptly as he’d gone in for the snog, and Harry’s head bumps the floor again. 

He doesn’t have time to wonder before Niall’s unfastening his trousers, sliding the zip down with painstaking slowness, until Harry’s writhing against the floor and chewing on his knuckles. “Niall,” he breathes, and he can hear Niall’s laugh, rumbly and amused and strangely sweet. “Niall,” he says again, and lifts up so Niall can push his trousers down. It takes some doing, Harry likes to wear them tight, but he groans when his erection is freed, slit gleaming wet around a wad of precome.

“Fuck,” Niall croaks. “No, don’t move.” His accent’s gone thick and slurry. He scrambles down Harry’s body and begins depositing kisses onto Harry’s hips, his thighs, mouth ghosting the underside of his bollocks. Harry snaps up, groaning, can’t help it, but Niall pushes him back flat against the floor. Niall’s hands holds him still as his lips wrap around the head of Harry’s cock. Harry sees stars.

Niall sucks at the tip of his cock — delicately, like he’s testing out a hot tea. Harry goes wild for it, sweat pooling into the grooves of his collarbones, mouth open and panting. “Niall,” he says, desperate, while Niall sips at his cock and drinks his precome. Harry’s thighs tremble with the effort not to simply buck up and ride Niall’s face. God. Niall looks so good, lovely blond head with darkening roots bowed over Harry’s lap, pretty mouth tasting Harry’s dick.

Niall looks up, meet his eyes. Then his throat works as he slides down on Harry, taking more of him inside — down, down, down, careful and slow. Niall’s struggling, Harry can tell, and he feels a flash of dark satisfaction at that, that Harry’s bigger than Niall can handle. Niall chokes at one point, lifts up, wipes at his mouth. Goes back for it. Harry drinks in the sight of it: Niall with his bad gag reflex and his even shoddier knees, doing his best to blow Harry. It’s not a very good blowjob. It’s the best Harry’s ever had. 

His precome bleeds slippery over Niall’s cupid's bow. Niall eats him like he's not been fed for days. Harry can see the press of his dick stretching out the side of Niall’s cheek, and fuck, he thinks, _fuck_. Niall won’t let him move, so all Harry can do is watch, cock drooling steadily over Niall’s tongue. _Gonna feed you the best dessert_ , Harry thinks hysterically.

He doesn’t last long. Niall sucks the orgasm out of him with his tongue in Harry’s slit, gagging when Harry nuts into his mouth, creaming him with thick white jizz. Harry groans with relief as he comes, thrashing, staring wildly at the ceiling, his mouth parted but his lips and tongue dry. He feels like he’s pumping every bit of wet in his body into Niall’s mouth. Niall starts coughing.

“Fuck,” Harry breathes, “oh my god.” He’s trembling with the aftershocks, staring at Niall who’s breathing hard through his nose, still trying to swallow Harry’s come. 

Harry reaches for him, but Niall shakes his head. Swallows the last bit and rasps, “Gonna do this myself.” He throws one leg over Harry to straddle him, and Harry’s spent cock twitches against the soft, warm valley of Niall’s thighs. The flush on Niall’s chest goes all the way up to his collarbones, darkening his freckles. Niall takes himself in hand and gives a few tugs. 

“Nnnngh,” says Niall, throwing his head back, and Harry whimpers. He settles his hands on Niall’s waist, keeping him balanced, and that seems to be an acceptable trespass. Niall looks at him from beneath thick-lidded eyes, his cock peeking out between the clench of his fingers. Harry wants to lick at the swollen head of it.

Niall closes his eyes and jerks himself faster. Lets out a ragged moan when it’s too good, and his spine seems to melt. He tumbles forward onto Harry. 

Harry catches him, holding him partway up, their faces now close enough to kiss. He goes in for it, trading clumsy kisses as Niall wanks himself with increasing desperation, wailing at the last when he opens his eyes and shoots up Harry’s chest, sobbing as he spasms. He sounds like a man drowning. 

“Holy fuck,” he says when he comes down, and Harry strokes the sweat along his back. Listens to both of them struggling to get their heart rate back under control.

“Yeah,” he says, not sure what else to say, “holy fuck.”

 

:::

 

They sleep in their own rooms that night, because anything else means having a conversation about this. His sleep’s not precisely restful but somewhere in the midst of his phone saying three a.m. and seven, he manages to grab some, waking up to daylight. Dawn’s a slow spill through grey skies.

It’s Saturday, so no one has a pressing need to get up early. The vineyard’s sunk into a rare quiet. Niall’s probably still having a bit of a lie-in, the way he usually does on weekends, but Harry’s peckish, body well-shagged and sore from straining on the floor. He tosses on a silk dressing gown and heads downstairs, trying not, as Niall says, to make a clamour, even though the stairs are all so worn they protest at the barest weight.

He doesn’t expect Niall to already be in the kitchen, with a mug of tea and a book in hand, but, well, maybe there’s a lot he doesn’t expect from Niall.

“Toast and jam’s on the counter,” Niall says blandly, not looking up from his book. He’s reading Harry’s copy of _The Time Machine_.

Harry, unsure of this new thing between them, figures his best bet is to eat his toast and jam and shut up. He crunches moodily as Niall turns pages and drinks his tea. If there was ever a morning where something time travel-related might happen, Harry thinks, it would be this one. They shagged, and Niall’s reading the book. But nothing ends up happening. Harry finishes his breakfast. Niall reads some more.

“This book is bloody boring,” Niall finally says, giving up. “All these classics are the same. Everybody takes so long to say anything useful.” He slants Harry a look over his glasses like Harry’s literary tastes are a subject of personal offense.

“Well,” Harry replies, drawing the word out. “If you wanna know how it ends, they did make a pretty good miniseries of it, if I do say so myself. There, that's plenty useful, innit?”

Niall makes a sound like he doesn’t mean to laugh but can’t quite prevent it. “Thought maybe, if I read it too, something would…” he trails off.

“Yeah.”

“We’re kinda short on ideas for how to jump back, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” Harry repeats. He pushes his toast across the plate. “And ‘course you wouldn’t like H.G. Wells. Not enough purple prose for you, after that wine book.”

“Are you saying I got shit taste in books?” Niall asks.

“If the shoe fits…”

“I like good books,” Niall protests. “‘m rereading Harry Potter right now.”

“Are those good books?”

“You’re asking if Harry Potter’s any good?” Niall asks incredulously. “You’ve never read Harry Potter?”

“Never even seen the movies,” Harry says smugly. “Hit on Emma Watson once, though.”

“What the—” Niall sputters. “That’s not something to be _proud_ of, you twat. The books are like — a basic cultural milestone! Harry Styles not knowing anything about Harry Potter.” He clucks his tongue. Harry wonders if it’s a good idea to tell him that when he does that, he sounds like Harry’s mum. “We gotta change that, at least. Maybe _that’s_ why the universe’s mad at you.”

“Since we can’t think of any other reason, sure, let’s go with that one,” Harry says. He finishes his toast, wipes the crumbs from his face, and scrapes his chair back. He stands and looks at Niall, taking in his sleep-swept hair, the t-shirt he’s wearing that’s too big for him and keeps sliding down so Harry can glimpse his tanned shoulders. “ _Can_ think of better things to do with my time,” he says. “Wanna go back to bed?”

“I — er — yeah,” Niall says, clearly torn between wanting to yell at Harry about fictional wizards, and the intent look Harry’s giving him. “Don’t think we’re done talking about this, though.”

“Tell me all about it later,” Harry says. “Your room or mine?”

Niall stares at him.

“It’s a simple question, Horan,” Harry says. “Do you want to fuck in your room or mine? Your bed’s bigger but mine’s got the better sunlight this time of day.”

“You just open your gob and say shite-all, don't you,” Niall says. “My room.” He pushes away from the table. Harry turns and starts heading up the stairs. He can hear Niall following him. They reach the door to Niall’s room and Harry’s chivalrous about it. He lets Niall go in first. The hallway’s cramped enough that their bodies are forced to press together as Niall shuffles past him.

“We’re doing this then?” Niall asks, and the look on his face isn’t happy per se, but it’s not displeased either. 

“Why not?” Harry says, and starts crowding Niall towards the bed. Niall’s knees hit the edge and he falls backwards onto the mattress, hair gleaming golden in the shadows. “Is it gonna be weird if I say I wanna fuck you?”

“It’s all weird,” Niall says, but he winds his arms around Harry’s neck and kisses him. It’s not like last night when they were so keen to rip each other’s kit off, it bordered on violence. This is slow and meandering, kisses meant for hours to waste, and Harry thinks he might never tire of the shape of Niall beneath him, the rub of his mouth, the smell of Niall’s skin the best thing to wake up to.

Harry returns the favour from last night. He gets Niall out of his clothes, pulls him to the edge of the bed, and drops to his knees. Niall’s legs are hanging off the mattress, so Harry puts them over his shoulder. Leans in to breathe in the ripening musk of Niall’s cock, listening to Niall’s breathing pan out. “Harry,” Niall says, and yeah, Harry wants to hear more of his name on Niall’s wrecked-up voice like that.

He swallows Niall down, root to tip. Harry’s always had a big mouth. Niall moans a sound of pure need.

Harry lets go with a pop, saliva trailing from Niall’s cock to his chin. “You can fuck my face if you want to,” he says. “I don’t mind.”

“Jesus,” Niall says, heartfelt, and when Harry guides Niall back into his mouth, Niall’s hips start moving. Slowly at first, nothing more than a few incremental grinds. Harry makes an encouraging noise, and the vibration of it, the clench of Harry's throat, makes Niall shake. He starts fucking properly then, still careful, but with increasing speed and force.

“Your goddamn mouth,” he gasps, and Harry can tell that it excites him, Harry’s mouth crammed with dick. Niall raises himself up to watch, but then Harry’s fingers start playing with his bollocks. Niall shouts. He drops back onto the bed, thighs quake as they ride.

Harry moans deeply, loving how Niall’s using him, loving the way Niall’s fucking relentlessly into his mouth. His free hands squeeze Niall’s bollocks as he thinks about all the come they must be holding, how _much_ come Niall gave Harry last night. Niall’s making a sound behind gritted teeth that’s a constant keen, crying out when his cock flexes in Harry’s mouth and Harry can taste the bitter edge that means Niall’s about to shoot.

Harry’s lapping at his cock when Niall loses it, fingers tearing at the bedspread as he bows his back and aims his come over Harry’s face. It stripes everywhere, onto Harry’s mouth, onto his cheeks, onto his eyelashes. Niall continues to come.

Harry scoops some of the come. He presses it against Niall’s hole, spreading it around. Niall chokes on an exhale as the tip of Harry's finger pushes inside, his thighs spreading apart, an offering. Harry’s so hard by now that it’s a struggle not to simply climb atop Niall and hump him to completion, but he wants to make this last. He said he’s going to fuck Niall and he will. 

He opens him up with the wetness of his own jizz, testing the hot, velvety cling of Niall's arse on his fingers, the spasm whenever Harry slides them back out. Harry fucks Niall with his fingers for a long time, until Niall’s got his eyes shut, blissed out on the bed. “Harry,” he keeps groaning, and Harry bites his lip.

“Lube,” he says. “Condoms.”

“Nightstand.” Niall’s voice is a ruin of a thing. Harry slips his dressing gown off his shoulders. He’s starkers underneath.

“Typical,” says Niall, and traces a hand along Harry’s laurels as Harry fumbles with the nightstand.

Getting his dick inside Niall is — indescribable. Harry no longer questions why future-Harry jumped through so many hoops to stretch out their divorce, if it gave him the chance to keep running into Niall, if it gave him this. He makes Niall turn onto his stomach as Harry enters him. He watches the flex of Niall’s back, the fanning out of his shoulderblades, as he takes him in, both their hips sinking into liquid heat. 

He waits until he bottoms out, giving Niall time to adjust around the length. Niall’s face is in the pillows, but Harry can see the pink tips of his ears, the sweat beading on his neck. Harry kisses the nape of his neck until Niall gulps and pushes back.

Harry’s going to make this good for him. Harry’s going to give it to him _so_ good. He starts fucking Niall gently, and like a collector he savours Niall’s small gasps and moans. “You like this, don’t you,” he murmurs into Niall’s ear, increasing the pace of his thrusts just barely. 

“Stop begging for compliments and fuck me,” Niall says. 

Harry laughs. Niall keeps pushing back onto him, demanding more, faster, but Harry’s content to fuck him just as he is now: a nice leisurely pace, a weekend ride. If Harry plays his cards right he could keep doing this for hours, he reckons, and the thought of it, of having Niall’s arse for the rest of the morning, until it’s puffy and sore and ruined by Harry's cock, puts a fire in him.

“I wanna see your face,” he says after a solid fifteen minutes of shagging. He pulls out of Niall only to flip Niall onto his back. Then, holding Niall’s legs up to his chest, he plunges back in. Niall screams. 

“Goddamnit, Harry, can you do this _faster_ ,” he says when Harry resumes his unhurried pace. He tries to knee Harry in the chest but Harry pins him down so that he can’t. Niall’s face is splotchy and his glasses smeary and askew. He looks boyish and breathtakingly young, more like the Niall that Harry remembers from the time they’re from. Harry fucks him in slow drags, taking his time to search for the right angle until Niall’s moaning nonstop.

“You’re loud,” Harry muses, pressing his thumb to the corner of Niall’s mouth. He knew this before, from tours when he’d have the hotel room beside Niall’s, but now he knows for real.

“ _Harry_ ,” Niall sobs, and suddenly Harry might have to reconsider the plan of hours. Minutes, maybe. His thighs smack Niall’s as they fuck, the sight and sound of it gloriously nasty in the lengthening shadows of the room. Niall keeps making these noises like he’s going to die. It’s too much. Heat rushes Harry’s spine as Niall’s sounds get louder. Niall’s going to come again. Harry’s going to _make_ him come again. 

He lets loose and pounds the rest of the way in, no mercy, shoving Niall up the bed with the force of his thrusts. He grabs Niall’s prick and starts wanking him, going at it until Niall chokes on his own breath and comes with a shout. Harry milks the feeling of Niall falling apart on his cock, and then his vision blurs and he’s crossing the line too, fucking his orgasm into Niall’s tight, gorgeous arse. He comes so hard, he forgets his own name.

He rolls over afterwards, flopping on the other side of the bed. “So the first time wasn’t a fluke.”

“Guess not,” Niall says, equally out of breath. He sits with a groan and stares down at the mess of the sheets they’ve made. Harry gazes up at him, at the ropes of come on his chest, at the pink of his softening cock. He wants to grab Niall and do this all over again.

“Your legs are really dry,” Niall says, removing his glasses and folding them.

“Um,” Harry says, not expecting that, “okay.”

“Could feel them the entire time,” Niall says, “like getting mounted by a lizard.”

“Hey,” Harry frowns.

“Remember seeing them that way at Liam’s wedding.” Niall tilts his head. “Remember Louis telling you to use some Vaseline.”

Harry remembers this too. It feels like another life ago, and it was. “My moisturizing shit didn’t exactly time-travel with me.” He stretches out languidly and sees Niall’s eyes slide along the rest of him, the better parts. Harry untangles the cross from around his neck.

“I think I got some Vaseline kicking around,” Niall says. His thumb and forefinger rub Harry’s calf, stroking absently, almost like he doesn’t realize what he’s doing.

“Later,” Harry says, and reaches for him again. 

 

:::

 

They hardly leave the bed that weekend. Harry examines his body in the bathroom mirror on Monday. He’s never looked as good as he does now, he thinks, painted over with tattoos, bruises, and bite marks. His face in the mirror is lean-boned and hungry. A man’s face that’s finally emerged from the mop-headed round-cheeked lad he’d once been.

He and Niall are both ravenous for breakfast. They eat with the rest of the crew, and Harry goes for seconds of his porridge, then demolishes an apple and two nectarines after that. He tries not to look across the table where Niall’s chatting with Iskander about automated bottling machines and think about the bruises on Niall’s wrists that are in the shape of Harry’s fingers.

Niall doesn’t talk to Harry during breakfast. Harry returns the favour. They’re not ignoring each other, exactly (Harry clumsily drops a spoon at one point, and Niall hands him a clean one), but it’s like, well, the best way Harry can think of it is, they’re both determined to prove nothing’s changed.

And that’s true, isn’t it. Finally getting to shag Niall is nice (god is it nice), but it’s not made any earth-shattering difference to Harry’s life. He’s not been made different because of it.

He’s yanking out more of the porch that afternoon when he hears the landline go off in Niall’s office. He almost never hears anyone use that line, not when Niall’s got a work mobile for vineyard stuff. Curiosity makes him shuck his gloves and wander inside to answer it. 

It’s a daycare in town trying to reach Marame. “Tried calling her on her cell, but no one’s answering,” the woman says apologetically. “She had this as her backup number?”

“Uh huh,” Harry says. “I’ll pass on the message to her.”

Walking down the road to the winery, cracking open the heavy industrial door and going inside. The first time he saw it, he thought of Twin Boughs’ winery as an alchemist’s lab, all these simmering vats and tubes of deep-hued liquid. Pleasures and potions, he thinks. The air’s always alive with the hum of HVAC and engines, and it’s several degrees hotter inside than it is out, so everyone’s stripped down to t-shirts and shorts. He spies Cat right away, rolling a barrel of wine on a cart towards one of the machines. 

“Hi Harry,” she says. “Looking for Niall? He’s over there.” She points to where Harry can see Niall bent over a twisty centrifuge, trying to fiddle with something inside the body of the machine. His trousers pull tight over his arse.

“Ah, no, actually,” he says, momentarily distracted. “Someone called for Mareme. She’s — oh, I see her now.” He waves to Cat and makes a beeline for Mareme, who’s mopping up a spill. 

“Daycare called the house,” Harry tells her. “Your son’s got a fever. Said someone ought to take him home.” 

Her face falls into worry. “Rachel?” 

“Sorry, is she here? Don’t see her.” He looks around, but nope, no Rachel.

“She is in the fields with Sari,” Mareme says anxiously. “But she — my ride—” Her English lapses.

“Oh,” says Harry, “is that all? I can give you a lift to town. C’mon.” 

Iskander comes over. “What’s the matter?” 

Harry explains, and Iskander’s face deepens with worry too. Impossibly nice, Niall once called their winery manager, and Harry’s inclined to agree. “But that is terrible,” Iskander says earnestly. “Of course go and take Ousmane home. Mr. Harry will drive you, but if there is anything else you need, please call. Do you want us to call your husband and let him know?”

“No, no need to bother him,” Mareme’s shaking her head. “Just a ride is fine. _Thank you_.”

Niall’s noticed them by now. Harry meets his gaze and mimes a steering wheel. Niall nods, then halts. He looks tired, and only Harry knows why.

“Hold on a sec.” Niall hurries over. “Are you gonna take the truck?”

“Yeah,” says Harry. He always takes the truck.

“Won’t fit three,” Niall says. “Take the Mazda. Keys in the key dish.”

Even though it’s been parked in the driveway since the day Harry got here, Harry’s never driven Niall’s sensible little Mazda before, not when the other option is getting to roar through the countryside like a king on wheels. Poor forgotten sedan. The dashboard’s dusty and the windows bug-peppered and streaky, but Harry flicks on the wipers and lets them swish across the glass for a few seconds while Mareme climbs into the passenger seat. 

“Got everything?” Harry asks. She nods.

She doesn’t talk much on the drive to town. Harry turns on the radio for background noise, and then decides otherwise and turns it off. He makes the trip somewhat faster than he needs to, bumping along the dirt roads and avoiding the sharp shoulders, but this isn’t London or L.A. No one’s here to stop him. When they reach town, she gives him directions until he pulls up front of the daycare. 

He waits in the car. Ten minutes later Mareme comes out carrying a little boy, his Bob the Builder backpack dangling off the crook of her elbow.

“‘m hot,” her boy complains. 

She says something to him in French, and then props him up in the backseat, doing up his seatbelt. Ousmane peers at Harry.

“This is Mr. Harry,” Mareme says in English. “Do you remember meeting Mr. Horan?”

Ousmane doesn’t reply, just fidgets and looks tired, but Mareme pretends as if he had. “Mr. Horan is Maman’s boss, remember? Well, Mr. Harry is Mr. Horan’s husband.” Then she yelps. “Ex-husband, I mean. No. Wait. Er.”

“Yeah, your guess is as good as mine,” Harry laughs. “We all buckled up back there?” A thought occurs to him. “Does he need to go to the hospital? Because we can do that too.”

“No, no hospital,” Mareme says, touching Ousmane’s forehead. “Home is fine, please. I will watch over him.” She slides into the backseat beside him and tucks his backpack on her lap. She strokes her son’s arm. Back to French, low murmurs and assurances. Ousmane sleeps. Harry drives.

“Oi, how’d it go?” Niall asks when he finds Harry back at the house, filling up a glass of water from the faucet. L.A Harry only drank filtered designer water but now he finds he no longer cares.

“Hm, what? It was fine, she’s home now with her kid.” Harry leans his hip against the counter. “She’ll give us a ring if she needs any help.”

“Okay,” Niall says, “and — thanks.”

Harry remembers a morsel from an earlier conversation. Sips on his nice cold tap water as he says, “Hey, is it true that you’re helping Mareme pay for daycare so that she can work here?”

“Not _me_ but…”

“Future-Niall.”

“Seems like it,” Niall concedes. “Was already set up when I got here.”

“That’s a real decent thing for future-Niall to do,” Harry says. 

“Future-Niall’s loads more thoughtful than current-Niall, I think.” Harry stirs to respond, but Niall cuts him off. “I don’t mean that current-me’s a horrible person. At least I don’t think I am?” _You’re not_ , Harry wants to say. “But I don’t think I could do what future-Niall does, all of this, all the time.” Niall waves his hands. “All these people depending on him. Even just trying it on for size this past month and a half’s been exhausting.”

“But you _are_ doing it,” Harry points out. “Even if you don’t want to. You’re here and you’re — keeping this place afloat, I guess. Oh, c’mon,” he says when he sees the face Niall’s making. “Learn to take a compliment for once, you wanker. You’re always like this when someone tries to say something nice about you.”

“It’s suspicious when _you_ do it, is all,” Niall retorts. 

“I say lots of nice things about you!”

“Yeah, _insincerely_.”

“Fuck off,” Harry says, “it’s all sincere.” This is too much like their argument from before. He holds himself ready for Niall to blow up again, except that doesn’t happen. He yelps as Niall hip-checks him out of the way to reach for a glass in the cabinet. Niall smells like wine-vat yeast and citrus body wash. He smells like the sheets on his bed too, old and sweat-sour. Harry fights the urge to stick his face in Niall’s hair for a deep whiff. It’s Monday, and the weekend’s over. The sex-fever’s broken. Niall’s got to get back to work. These are all things he tells himself.

Niall, wholly oblivious to how close he is to being bent over the sink, finds a clean glass. Harry twists on the tap for him. 

“Thanks,” Niall says. He fills his glass to the brim. The water’s cloudy at first. “And I was, um, being sincere too. Thanks for helping Mareme. She’s a good egg.” He thinks about it. “Oops, is that weird? Am I being condescending? But she’s not much older than future-Niall, like. Maybe I’m getting used to thinking of myself as being older.”

Once Niall climbs on tangents, he’ll never get off. He’s even worse than Harry about it. “Glad to help,” Harry interrupts. “See? Sweet and simple. That’s how you accept compliments.”

“That so?” 

“Better take notes,” Harry brags. “Learn from a master.”

Niall’s smile sneaks across his face. He tugs at one of Harry’s curls. “You’ll have to teach me then, Hamberto. ‘m a slow learner. So you’ll have to teach me _hard_.” His hand travels down Harry’s chest, trailing innocently over his nipples, before cupping his bollocks through his shorts. Harry freezes. Niall grins and gives him a firm squeeze. Then he lets go and saunters away, cool as you please, back to work while it’s Harry who’s left gawking at the sink. 

 

:::

 

Later that evening, as if he hadn’t revealed that his chosen method of gratitude is to brazenly grope people, Niall brings his dishes to the sink and says, “I meant it. When I said I wasn’t gonna let it go.”

“Let go what?” Harry asks, suddenly wary but also mildly turned on. His arms are elbow-deep in dish-cleaning suds.

“You never reading Harry Potter, mate. Reckon that might amount to a national crime.”

“So s’not me teaching you anymore,” Harry says, scrubbing a fork and laying it in the drying rack. “Gonna be the other way around.”

“Might be,” Niall says. 

“Get me a copy then.”

“You underestimate me.” Niall grabs a handful of suds and shoves them into Harry’s face. Harry flails and nearly trips over his own ankles trying to back away. “It’s already done. We could do it _right now_.”

“What, you had the books lying around in the attic or summat?” Harry bats Niall’s roaming hands away. 

“It’s 2024,” Niall says. “I downloaded them onto my iPad. Bloop bloop bloop.” He makes obnoxious computer noises, and Harry scowls because that’s not what an iPad sounds like. It’s not what anything sounds like. “Get with the times already.”

“I get with the times very well, thank you very much,” Harry sniffs. “I’m so good with time, it’s decided to buddy up and send me into the future. Me and time, we’re like that.” He crosses his fingers and Niall rolls his eyes. Swats Harry on the arse again and tells him to meet up in the sitting room when he’s ready.

Harry expects Niall to shove the iPad in his hands and leave him at it, whilst Niall sits on the couch watching footie or reading yet another wine book. It’s how they’ve spent a great deal of their evenings at Twin Boughs. But when Harry slinks into the sitting room, Niall’s tucked into his favourite armchair with his iPad in his lap and makes no move to hand it over. “Sit down,” he orders, and Harry does, but with great suspicion.

“My eyesight’s pretty good, but s’not that good. Can’t read it from all the way over here.”

Niall holds up the iPad. “See the cover?”

“Is that an owl on it?” Harry squints.

“It’s Hedwig, you barbarian.”

“And there’s like — lightning?” Harry is concerned. “Owls don’t get killed by lightning in this book, do they? I need warnings for that kind of thing.”

Niall turns the iPad back to himself and clears his throat. “ _Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much_.”

“You’re going to read it out loud to me?” Harry interrupts. “That’s the plan?”

Even in the watery light of the single lamp, he can see the flush cross Niall’s face. “Haven’t read it for years meself,” Niall says defensively. “Thought we could do it together. But, like, if you don’t want to, I’m not gonna make a fuss over it.” He takes Harry’s pause for an answer and starts putting the iPad away. “Never mind,” he mutters. “Think I got a call to make anyway and I should—”

“No,” Harry says quickly, surfacing from his thoughts. “No, this is good. Let’s do it. Better than watching the movies, yeah?”

“Oh, we’re gonna watch the movies too,” Niall threatens. “But after the books.” 

“Carry on then,” Harry says, grabbing a throw pillow and wrapping his arms around it. “Tell me more about Harry Potter. Is the owl Harry? Is that why it’s on the cover?”

“You know bloody well Harry Potter’s not an owl,” Niall says, but he’s laughing. “Anyway. Next bit: _‘They were the last people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn’t hold with such nonsense._ ’”

“I like these people already.”

“You won’t,” Niall scoffs.

“I _will_. Don’t tell me who to like.” Riling up Niall’s sensibilities is the best sport he’s ever had. Harry digs his chin into the pillow, ignoring how it smells like traces of old lady perfume, and closes his eyes as he listens to Niall read. This was a brilliant idea, he decides, because Niall has such a good voice — well, obviously, everybody and their mother knows that Niall Horan has a superb voice the moment they hear one of his songs. But it’s good like this too, quiet and intimate. Acoustic, Harry thinks, if books can be acoustic, which — Niall can.

They get through three chapters when Harry sees his phone vibrate on the coffee table. “Ignore it,” he says, and Niall’s smile is pleased.

“‘ _A giant of a man was standing in the doorway,’”_ he reads. _“‘His face was almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair—_ ”

“—like Liam in this timeline, eh? Have you seen him yet?”

“No, but I’ve seen the photos,” Niall says. “No words, man, but whatever makes him happy and keeps Perrie from murderin’ him. Anyway. _‘A long, shaggy mane of hair and wild, tangled beard, but you could make out his eyes, glinting like black beetles underneath all that hair._ ” He chuckles. “All that hair. Sounds like you too.”

Harry touches future-Harry's short-cropped hair and knows Niall's picturing a different Harry, another body. His phone keeps vibrating. He flips it over, just to see who it is. “It’s my mum. Maybe I ought to take it.”

“Definitely take it,” Niall says. “I can’t be held responsible for making Anne unhappy.”

Harry picks up. “Hi Mum.”

“Is this a bad time?” she asks. “You think I’d be better at figuring out the time difference between here and L.A, but you also know that both of us are rubbish at maths. Tit for tat, love.”

“Not in L.A.” Harry coughs. “‘m in south Australia.”

“South Australia?” She’s puzzled. “What for?”

“A nature expedition. A solo scientific excursion to investigate one of the rarest and most dangerous animals on the known planet. It’s small, fuzzy, blond, spits when it loses at golf. The Niallus Horanus.” Niall’s laughing silently, showing his teeth.

“Oh _Harry_ ,” his mum says, and falls silent.

“Don’t sound like that. It’s _fine_ ,” Harry’s quick to assure her. “We’re not fighting at all. We’re—” he smirks, “making up quite well, to be honest. Bygones be bygones.” Niall starts gesturing wildly. “He says hullo, by the way. You’re still his favourite band mum.”

“Can I talk to him?” Anne asks.

“‘Course.” Harry passes the phone over. Niall immediately launches into a friendly greeting, because it’s true, he and Anne always did have a soft spot for each other. But then Anne’s saying something and Niall’s goes quiet, sneaking the occasional glance at Harry who’s trying to pretend he doesn’t care what his mum says to Niall, not at all. He makes a pretense of studying his nails. They’re always black with dirt these days.

Niall says bye to Anne and hands the phone to Harry. “‘m heading to bed now,” he says. “G’night.” He yawns and stretches, arms above his head. Harry glimpses a strip of pale, hairy skin at his belly as his shirt rides up. 

“Harry,” his mum says in tones of great disapproval. He can hear Niall humming the Eagles as he takes the stairs two by two.

“It’s not serious,” Harry says. “Just some stress relief.”

“You were married to him, and now you’re — living with him? Helping him run his vineyard? I don’t even know. How is it anything but serious?” It’s the first time she’s brought up any details about his 2024 life.

“I dunno how to explain it,” Harry groans. “Just is. Look, can we talk about something else. How’s Robin? Did I tell you I’m fixing the porch here? I’m learning to use _power tools._ ”

His mum is sufficiently distracted and alarmed by the power tools. 

Even though he’s seen her but a few weeks ago, it feels like they’ve both slowly relearning how to talk to each other. It was easy enough when he could fob her off with an explanation of head trauma, but Anne’s not as silent on her judgement as she was when he was visiting Holmes Chapel. No longer as willing to baby him. Harry gets an earful. 

When he finally makes it upstairs to bed, he passes Niall’s room. Door’s open, light’s still on, and Niall’s lying atop his bed wearing his glasses and a pair of striped boxers. He’s still reading on his iPad. 

He notices Harry watching him from the door. “Skipped ahead by myself,” he says sheepishly. “Got too caught up.”

“Listen to these sad excuses,” Harry says. He checks his watch. “Still got time for another chapter. If you want.”

“Sure, let’s try to get you to Hogwarts at least.” Niall scoots over on the bed. Harry slides in and pulls the duvet over them. Their shoulders play bumper cars. Niall’s smiling slightly as he scrolls back, trying to remember where they left off, and Harry is struck with a sense of memory so strong it curls his toes. None of this is new. This is the Niall he remembers best from the band, his favourite of all the Nialls he’s known. In bed late at night, smiling, Harry rolled up like a sock against him.

Two more chapters, and Niall’s voice starts slurring with tiredness. Harry’s mostly nodded off, waking up with a jerk only to mumble, “Shit. Better get to my own bed.” He groans at how much effort that’ll demand. 

Niall sounds amused. “Considering what we’ve done all over this bed, you sleeping here’s the least of my worries.”

“Generous man,” Harry yawns, and, permission granted, steals the rest of the covers.

 

:::

 

The chain comes off his bike, and he fixes it. When he rears up, Godfrey’s at the edge of the garden fence watching him. “Wish I brought my bike too,” Godfrey says wistfully.

Harry wipes his dirty hands on a flannel. “You can borrow mine.”

“Really?”

“I use it most mornings, but you can have it in the evenings.” He drapes the flannel over the fence posts. “Reckon an evening ride’s just as nice as a morning one in this valley. I can tell you the best routes.” 

“That’d be _amazing_ ,” Godfrey says. He starts telling Harry about his mountain bike still at his parents’ and how he joined a neighbourhood bicycling club in Adelaide, but mostly it’s elderly ladies, but that’s alright because there are worse things in life than having a bunch of elderly ladies fond of you, especially when it comes to free cookies. Harry listens to all of this with a faint smile, and Godfrey adds, “Also, you’re a lot nicer than I expected, so that’s — uh, um, ah.” He trails off. “Shit, that’s not what I meant to say. It sounded different in my head.”

“No,” Harry says calmly, “I get that sometimes. More lately than ever.” A whim occurs to him and he asks, somewhat sneakily, “Who’d you think is nicer, me or Niall?”

“That’s not fair!” Godfrey yelps. “I take it back. You’re not nice at all.”

Harry grins.

“But I like you better,” Godfrey confesses. “Niall’s great, don’t get me wrong! He has the — the best smile! When you done something that really stoked him?” Harry knows what smile he’s talking about. “But when I was nine and my older sister had One Direction posters in her room, I always thought you looked like the friendliest.”

“Me, the friendliest?” Harry asks, choosing to disregard the words _when I was nine_ because that makes him feel impossibly old and creaky, especially in this body. “Not Liam German-shepherd-dog Payne then?”

“I think it was cos of your curly hair,” Godfrey says. “My mum had long curly hair too.”

“So now I remind you of your _mum_?” Godfrey starts turning red, and Harry laughs. Cuffs him over the side of his head and tries not to think about how that makes him feel old too, squeaky nineteen-year-olds blushing under his hand. “Just giving you a hard time, mate. I’m chuffed you liked me best.”

His bike’s no longer by the fence that evening when Harry waters his garden. He’s on his knees, adding some more fertilizer to his onion bulbs, when Godfrey appears at the end of the driveway, wheeling the bike. 

“How was it?” Harry asks, straightening. “Did you go the way I recommended? With the gorgeous trees?”

“I did, but then I got lost,” Godfrey says. “Rode all the way to Mount McKenzie. But that was okay too.” He tucks his helmet underneath one arm. “Thanks. It’s been kind of a stressful day, so I needed this a lot.”

“Oh yeah?” Harry asks. “What happened?” Niall’s not come back yet. He texted Harry to say that he was working through dinner, so Harry’s left some of the veg gratin in the oven warming for him. 

“One of the racks in the cellar broke. It went _crack_.” Godfrey waves an arm dramatically. “An entire shelf of barrels collapsed and got damaged. Stuff started leaking. Aunt Cat looked horrified. Hey, where I should put the bike?”

“Over there’s fine,” says Harry. Godfrey parks the bike and ambles off to his cottage, stomach growling, desperate for dinner. Harry finishes adding extra fertilizer to his garden, then washes his hands off with the hose. He goes into the house and washes for a second time, with soap. He checks on the gratin to make sure it’s not burning. He makes himself some tea and reads the next few chapters of Harry Potter. He checks his emails and texts, replies to a few, mostly the ones from Jeff, who keeps asking him if he’s feeling better and when does he think he’ll be ready to return to L.A.

Harry wonders if he’ll have to start coming up with a plan after all. He and Niall are nearing two months in 2024 and there’s no sign of jumping back to their own time. If they _are_ stuck here for a longer haul, he’ll need to figure out what to do. He can’t stay on this vineyard forever, dicking around, making a nuisance of himself the way he is now — it’s a form of purgatory while Harry waits, and he’s becoming afraid of the answer he’s waiting for. 

Thinking about it ties his stomach up in knots, which is how Niall looks when he comes home late that night. He pokes at the gratin while Harry’s reading across the table from him, turning the pages delicately. It’s all a front. Harry’s body is a thrumming live wire, worry melting into energy melting into want. He feels heat all the way up to his scalp. 

“Godfrey told me about the shelf falling,” he says after a while, when Niall’s not going to bring it up. He hardly brings up any of the actual winery operations around Harry, like he thinks Harry’s not interested. “How many barrels broke?”

“Way too many,” Niall says with a stony press of his lips. “They should’ve been made stronger. God, what a fuckup. Future-Niall should’ve bought better barrels. Should’ve made sure the shelf was screwed in proper.”

Harry presses his legs together. “Isn’t that Iskander’s job too?”

“Not gonna blame Iskander for this,” Niall snaps. “Man’s overworked as it is.”

“And you aren’t?”

“‘s not the same,” Niall says. “I’m the rich bastard who waltzed in and bought out the family. Iskander’s just tryin’ to make a living in a new country.”

“You didn’t buy out the family. The family gave it up and _sold_ it to you,” Harry says. “It’s not Iskander’s fault and it’s not yours either.” He twists his rings, feeling them catch over the skin of his knuckles. “You don’t got to play the martyr all the time.”

Niall gives him an unimpressed, prickly look. 

“I can help,” Harry says.

“What, how? Barrels of wine aren’t gonna be fixed by some tight trousers and sparkly jewelry.”

Harry tamps down on his annoyance. “Fuck you.”

“Sorry.” Niall stares at his food. “Don’t mean to take this out on you. Just been a really long day.” He offers a wan smile. “You know I’m a fan of your tight trousers and sparkly jewelry. And your home reno and all the rest.”

“Exactly, I’m a well-dressed angel sent in to save you from your sorry self,” Harry says. “And I mean it, let’s fuck.” He grabs Niall’s hands across the table and looks him in the eye. Strokes a finger across the feathery pulsepoint of Niall’s wrist.

“‘m _tired_ , Harry,” Niall says. 

“You’re thirty years old in this body, not a hundred,” Harry whinges. He comes around the table and sits on Niall’s lap. Niall’s hands immediately fly out to steady him. 

“Not in the mood,” Niall says, while Harry grinds down experimentally. “Can we do this tomorrow? Just wanna sulk today. Let me fucking sulk.”

“You can sulk while my dick’s in you,” Harry says, and starts biting along Niall’s ear. Niall tries to hide his shiver, but Harry feels it against his mouth. Smiles as he takes Niall’s earlobe between his teeth and gives it a tug. Niall groans. “See what I mean?” Harry says. He tips forward to capture their mouths together, the kiss long and slick. Niall starts kissing him back.

“You’re not gonna leave me alone, are you?” Niall says, breathing hard into Harry’s mouth. Harry kisses him again, and again. 

“Nope.”

“Spoilt,” says Niall. He deepens the kiss until Harry’s clinging to him, knees locked together, thirsty for the taste of Niall, the warmth of Niall’s chest along his belly, the pressure of Niall’s dick poking into his thigh. Anything Niall will give to him, he’ll take. He wants it bad.

“But — _god_ — guess I’m not that hard to convince after all,” Niall says as Harry digs his arse into Niall’s lap. Harry swallows his smile, trades several more kisses, and then shuffles along when Niall makes them move to the couch in the sitting room. 

He pushes Harry onto the couch. But instead of climbing atop him the way Harry was hoping for, a bit of bump and grind to end the day, Niall drops a pillow to the floor and lowers himself to his knees. Harry bites his lip at the sight. Niall with his hair crowned by the marigold light of the lamp, shadows pooling in the hollows of his face. Harry’s limbs feel jelly-like as Niall urges him out of his jeans, as Niall tucks his thumbs into the band of Harry’s briefs and inches them down slowly.

“Faster,” Harry says, but Niall shakes his head. 

“You’re always so proud of your big knob,” he says. “Give me a show, mate.” He leans in and mouths Harry’s erection through the cotton of his underpants, and Harry whimpers. Gets his briefs damp with his ooze of precome and Niall’s spit. 

“Want your mouth,” Harry says. “Christ — can hardly even, can’t even look at it without going crazy.”

Niall finally drags Harry’s briefs under his hips, and Harry’s cock springs out, its head as red as a freshly ripened strawberry. Harry’s mind breaks a circuit as Niall wraps his lips around it and starts sucking. He bucks, trying to get his dick down Niall’s throat, letting up only when Niall stops to gag. “Sorry, sorry,” says Harry, but Niall’s eyes are flint-dark and he says simply, “I like that.”

Harry groans. Deposits another load of precome over Niall’s bruised mouth. “Can give it to you all day then. S’long as your knees can take it.”

“Spoilt,” says Niall as he braces himself over Harry’s lap and enjoys his dick. Lewd sucking noises fill the sitting room, and Harry thinks of how the curtains are still open, and anybody walking by could see. Sari or Iskander coming by with a late-night question, Godfrey wanting to know more about bike routes, and they’d see this: Harry fucking Niall’s mouth, and Niall loving it.

Niall’s fingers join his mouth and he’s rolling Harry’s bollocks in his hands, and god, fuck, one of his finger’s gone and pressed against Harry’s arse, nudging its tip inside. Harry goes wild for that, thrashing until Niall has to hold him down and whisper “shhh, shhh” around Harry’s cock. 

He tugs Harry downwards, until Harry’s arse is hanging off the couch. Niall makes Harry set his feet on the cushions and hold his own knees apart. Harry’s rewarded for this wanton display by a second fingertip joining the first, spearing him, and it’s not longer after that until Niall’s mouth leaves Harry’s cock with a loud squelch. 

Harry has only a moment to breathe, and to squirm, so turned on that his mouth is parched for words. Then Niall’s tongue is lapping at his hole, and Harry cries out, it feels so wonderful. He pushes his hips against Niall’s mouth, trying to get more.

“Spoilt,” says Niall, treating Harry to a series of gentle licks, his stubble scraping Harry’s bollocks to near oversensitivity. But Harry’s melting into cushions as Niall licks at him, eyes unfocused, chest moving up and down in quick, shallow volleys. _Ah, ah, ah_ , Harry’s chanting, and then his voice cracks on a strung-out groan when Niall finally pushes as much of his tongue inside as he can, working through the tight muscle of Harry’s hole. Harry feels himself squeeze down, shocked and overcome.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that: Harry spread out on the couch, hair frizzing in the humidity, clutching at whatever he can. Niall between his thighs, slowly and patiently eating him out. “My knees feel fine. Could do this for hours,” Niall says, laughing at the expression on Harry’s face. “Would you like that? Bring you right to the edge, then pull you back. Over and over again, til you’re begging.” He buries his face in Harry’s arsecheeks and toys at him with his tongue. 

“I _am_ begging,” Harry says. “This is me, begging. God, _please_.” He wants Niall to eat him for hours, but he’s afraid of it too, afraid of how much he’ll give Niall when it’s done. How much he’s already given him. Niall’s fingers work deeper into Harry, finding the soft spongy bud of Harry’s prostate, and Harry sobs.

“Please,” he repeats. “I’m — fuck — not gonna last.” He thinks of what it felt like to have Niall fuck him for the first time, that weekend where they did everything. Thinks of what it’d feel like now, for Niall to dip himself into Harry’s body, push his way in. Harry’d let him fuck him raw, no rubber, he’s that far gone.

“Spoilt,” says Niall, writing pink maps of stubble-burn on Harry’s thighs. He pries Harry open, open and bare, relentless in his attentions until his tongue and fingers make Harry fly apart. He can’t hold it any longer. Orgasm hits him with a violence that shakes his bones; he trembles through it helplessly, squeezing out pearls and pearls of come, burning up in Niall’s arms.

 

:::

 

He doesn’t mean to. He’s looking for a pen when he starts upending the drawers in Niall’s office, and in the middle of all the documents that go into the running of a commercial vineyard and winery (reams and reams of it, all filed together and labeled in Niall’s swoopy hand), he finds their divorce papers. 

Seeing them’s a shock to the system. It’s not that he’s forgotten what’s between future-them, but it’s become less important than when Harry first arrived. Future-them are like clothes they put on in the morning to satisfy their friends and employees. Him and Niall know the difference. But seeing the papers feels like a ghost’s put its hand on Harry’s shoulder. Future-Harry was here first. Future-Harry had Niall long before Harry ever did, had him and lost him. 

He looks over the signatures on the papers. Niall James Horan divorcing Harry Edward Styles on grounds of irreconcilable differences. And Harry suddenly has a memory of future-Niall leaving the stall in the courtroom toilets where they just shagged, gaze sweeping over Harry who’s still buttoning up his trousers, and future-Niall’s saying, _We can’t do this again. It’s fucked up_. 

There’s something else clipped to the back of the papers. Harry reaches it and pauses. It’s a tour poster for Niall’s second album. In it, he’s standing in front of a rundown brick wall, hands in his pockets, guitar slung over his shoulder. Vest over fleece pullover. He looks impossibly relaxed and ready.

He thinks about it for the rest of the day. Those papers, that poster. The next morning it’s Saturday and Niall’s got an appointment in town to get his roots touched up. He’s arranged it so that he can go to the salon before it’s open to anybody else. “Such a celebrity move, I know,” he says, “but I’d rather not anyone recognize me. People still do, sometimes.”

Harry hears the wistfulness behind those words and says nothing. 

“Not that plenty of people in town haven’t seen me around before,” Niall adds, sounding sheepish. “Grocery shopping and the like. But — in and out like a shadow, hopefully no one bothers me.”

Harry runs a hand through Niall’s hair, feeling its crinkly ends. “Vain,” he says. 

“Like you’re one to talk.”

“Could do with a cut myself.”

“Come with then,” Niall says, and Harry does. 

The stylist who’s opening the salon early for Niall is panicked when she sees Harry, but then she makes a call and produces an apprentice. _Best I can do, sorry_ , she says, but Harry’s fine with it, not fussy about who cuts his hair. Would be normally, he’s as much of a prima donna as Niall, but he doesn’t care as much when it’s future-Harry’s hair they’re talking about. The apprentice shows up, makes him a coffee, and his hands tremble on his scissors. Harry tries to be as reassuring as he can, all the while hoping he doesn’t take out an eye.

Niall’s snickering at it all, the bastard, perfectly comfy as his stylist starts bleaching his roots. He eschews the small pile of celebrity magazines for a copy of National Geographic, and he keeps holding it out so Harry can see the best parts. “Look, a baby gorilla,” he says, and Harry makes an appropriately appreciative sound. 

“You ever thought about getting a dog for the farm?” he leans over to ask. “Nice fluffy shepherd dog, follow you everywhere.”

“If I stay here long enough, why not,” Niall laughs. “Always did fancy havin’ a dog, but—” He shrugs. It’s hard to take care of a dog, with their careers, when you’re always on the road. Harry knows.

“You ought to,” he says firmly. “Reckon future-Niall will thank you for it.”

“Ixnay on the future-Niall-ay,” Niall retorts.

Harry glances in the mirror at his stylist, who’s focusing so hard on his task that his forehead’s one giant wrinkle. “We’re just talking a massive load of gibberish,” he tells him. “We always do.”

Harry’s do when he leaves the chair is slightly lopsided, and he’s choking on a cloud of hairspray, but he brushes aside the apprentice’s anguished apologies. “It’s got character, don’t it,” he says, and makes sure to leave an extra large tip. Niall falls into stride beside him, heading out to the truck. His hair’s blond and perfect, quiffed up to orbital heights.

Niall starts the engine and turns on the radio. They’re halfway out of town when one of Harry’s songs comes on. Harry automatically reaches to turn it off, but Niall slaps his hand aside. “Leave it,” he says. “Gig’s up. I already know all your songs by heart.”

“Yet you won’t let me compliment yours,” Harry says. 

“‘Course, I didn’t say your songs were any _good_ ,” Niall says. “Oi! Don’t slap the driver. You wanna get us killed?”

“Slap? What’re you on about? That’s a gentle love tap.”

“You love-tap like a five hundred pound gorilla then,” Niall shoots back. 

“I’m gonna come over and _sit_ on you.”

“Keep it in your pants, Hamberto,” Niall says. “Wait at least until we’re home.” He doesn’t seem to think he’s said anything odd, but it shakes the cages in Harry’s head. Home. It’s not that he’s never thought it either, but it’s different coming out of Niall’s mouth, easy as truth. Harry shivers, suddenly cold. 

“What if this _is_ our future,” he asks, thinking of the papers, the poster, the song on the radio, “and we can’t change it? Even if we do jump back, it’s all gonna head here anyway?”

Niall, hands on the steering wheel, nevertheless spares him a sideways glance. “That’s impossible, though.”

“Why’s it impossible?”

“Just be being here, we’ve already changed this timeline,” Niall says. “The future’s not a set thing, anyway. This is just — one of many possible futures, I think.”

Harry bites his nails.

“Is this what’s botherin’ you?” Niall asks. “ _Think_ about it. This future’s based on us getting drunk married and then never properly talking to each other, innit? You become a huge wanker and I move to fucking Australia.” A turn manifests in the road and he takes it. “But we’re not like that. Not _us_.”

“You were barely talking to me in 2019,” Harry says, slouching into his seat. “Maybe that _was_ the beginning of future-us and this mess they’ve made. When we left Liam’s wedding angry each other.” He worries his lip with his teeth. “Maybe a few years later we would’ve had a run-in in Vegas and egged each other on.”

“Maybe,” Niall admits, “but like I said: that’s not us anymore. Whatever that future was, when we jump back, we’ve already changed it. Cos if you think I’m getting married to your pissed arse now, you’ve got another think coming.” He pauses. “Not that this future’s all bad. The vineyard’s pretty sick, once you get used to it.”

“It stresses you out all the time.”

“So’s being a professional musician,” Niall says, staring straight ahead at the road. “You can’t always know what’s gonna make you happy.”

Harry looks at him. “If music don’t make you happy, then I don’t even know who you are anymore,” he says honestly. “Who’s Niall Horan without music to keep him alive?”

Niall sighs. “Christ, I’m not having this conversation with you on the road.” He pulls over and cuts the engine. Undoes his seatbelt so he can turn around and look at Harry properly. Harry stares back. “I’ve not stopped loving music,” Niall says. “Gonna be making music til the day I die. Only I stopped loving the — expectations. The way the industry traps you in your own head.”

Harry’s silent.

“Look,” Niall says, “you wanna talk about it? Let’s talk about it. Won’t get any peace from you if I don’t.” He takes a breath. Another car comes rattling by, passes them, and disappears round the bend. Harry can smell its exhaust through the rolled down window, but inside the car the air’s so still, like fossilized amber.

“When I released ‘This Town’ I wasn’t lying,” Niall says haltingly. “Saying I didn’t mind if I’d never be as famous as I was with the band. A different scale, right? And people really liked ‘This Town’ so I thought, great, great, I’ve found my footing, my hard work’s paid off. But then you dropped your album three days after mine—” 

Harry stirs, ready to protest. Niall doesn’t stop talking. “—and suddenly it was like being surrounded by — all this noise. Roaring in me ears. Your album was so _good_. You dropping it felt like a direct challenge—”

“I wasn’t—”

“Jesus, let me finish,” Niall interjects. “A direct challenge, where you didn’t even need to try and people were loving your stuff more than mine.”

Harry looks at him, doesn’t let himself blink.

“I know how petty that sounds.” Niall makes a face.

“I mean—” Harry says. “All of it’s petty. It’s a petty industry.”

“It wasn’t about the numbers.” Niall shifts in his seat. “Wasn’t about the sales. It was about how you, and then Liam when he followed you—” a puff of air that sounds like a sigh. “People only ever talked about my work in comparison to yours. Would say it online, would say it to my face. Everywhere I went.” 

Harry’s seen the tweets, glimpsed the articles. People are arseholes, he wants to say. Has wanted to say it for a long time.

Niall blinks but his voice doesn’t waver. “You can only hear it so many times before you start feeling bad. Having doubts. Being told every day your bandmates are outpacing you, that you had one good song and even then it was only worth noticing cos you got it out first. It crept on me, even if I started out saying none of it would matter.” He smiles wryly. “Turns out it mattered.”

Harry doesn’t need to be told that it matters. He’s felt the pressure of it too. Don’t let anybody leave you behind. Push, push, push, and push.

“I started writing my second album before we jumped,” Niall continues, “and it was hard goin’.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “Felt like I was blocked, and that’s what I hear when I listen to the finished thing in 2024. All my anxieties laid out in my music, and trust me, I’ve a lot of them, and a lot of time lately to think about them. So does it piss me off that future-Niall’s stopped making music? Yeah, yeah it does. But does it surprise me? Not really.” He looks at the dashboard. “‘m not like you. I can’t just get over things that easily. I’m not charmed like you are.”

“I’m not charmed,” Harry says sharply. 

“Well, but y’know.” Niall shrugs in a fluid motion. “Future-Harry’s life is fairly peachy by any standards. Whole bloody world’s gagging for you.”

“Forget future-Harry,” Harry says. “I’m not charmed, Niall, I’m a _mess_. Can’t sleep right, can’t focus. Jeff sent me to a therapist to get my head straight. Fuck.” He touches his lopsided hair. “You don’t even understand.”

Niall’s face changes. “Understand some, I think. I’ve a therapist too. For the anxiety thing.” He lifts his gaze to the car roof. “Obviously.”

“I mean, I only just started seeing her before we jumped,” Harry barrels on, “so who knows if it’ll make a difference. But Dr. Sengupta came highly recommended, so I—” He narrows his eyes when Niall starts laughing. “What’s so funny?”

“Your therapist’s name is Dr. Sengupta?”

“Yeah,” Harry says warily.

“Dr. Sengupta’s _my_ therapist,” says Niall, and Harry stares.

“No.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Niall wheezes. “Nupoor Sengupta? Her office is on Weatherby Road?” Harry nods. He’s gotten so used to Niall in Australia that he’s half-forgotten in their real timeline Niall lives in L.A too. “Oh my god, we have the same therapist. _Of course_ we fucking do. Our managers probably picked her name out of the same book. She probably listens to me whinge about you, and you whinge about me, and then she goes home and laughs her arse off. It’s hilarious.”

“You whinge about me to Dr. S?” Harry says. 

“Harry, everybody you’ve ever met’s whinged about you to the first person they could find,” Niall says. “You’re a mental health disaster.” And he’s laughing so hard he has to put his head on the steering wheel, shoulders shaking, and Harry stares at him for a full minute before a giggle escapes him too. 

“Everything we do,” Harry says, muffling his face in his hands.

“Everything,” Niall cackles. “Y’know, truth is, I can’t even imagine being stuck in this future with anybody else. Not Liam, not Louis, nope. It only ever could’ve been you.” He’s still laughing as he wraps a hand around Harry’s shirt and tugs him in for a kiss. Celebrating — what, Harry doesn’t even know. Their mutual fuckedupness, perhaps. Their mutual fates. Whatever it is, Harry kisses him back slowly, eyes open.

“Yeah,” Harry says, “yeah.” And then, with a small, rueful smile: “Let’s go home.”  
  
  
  



	3. Today and Today and Today

He gets off the phone with Jeff, and then he pads over to where the door to Niall’s office is open, and he can hear Niall wrap up his own phone call. “Uh huh, uh huh, yup,” Niall’s saying, and then he’s laughing, loud and brassy, like church bells ringing down high street of Holmes Chapel, and Harry, still a young boy, holding his sister’s hand. “We’ve had our ups and downs this harvest, no doubt, but I’m positive things will turn out alright. They always do,” he adds.

“Who was that?” Harry asks, flung across the couch with _Chamber of Secrets_ when Niall wanders into the sitting room barefoot. He’s on the part where a basilisk starts roaming the school. Snake born from a chicken’s egg, hatched beneath a toad, which describes how Harry feels most days.

“Halliday Wine Companion. They wanted to interview Twin Boughs for a piece.”

“Thought future-Niall wanted to keep out of the papers these days,” Harry says mildly. 

“He did, I do.” Niall sprawls in his armchair and sticks his feet on the coffee table. “As far as they know, Twin Boughs is owned by Niall Walsh. Only the legal papers have my real name on them, supposedly.”

“That’s not gonna stop paps from turning it up eventually,” Harry warns. No matter how cautious they are when making trips to town, no matter how much they trust the Twin Boughs employees, one day it’s going to slip to the media that Niall Horan lives here, and Harry’s with him. These things always get out.

“Yeah, but that day’s not today, is it?” Niall says. “What’re _you_ in a sulk about?”

“Not in a sulk.”

“Bullshit,” says Niall. “Can practically hear you grinding your teeth. Chomp chomp chomp.” He snaps his jaws like an alligator, and Harry throws the book at him. “Argh, literary abuse, this is!”

“If Niall Walsh is the name everybody here knows you under…” Harry begins.

“Everybody who matters knows that’s all a ruse,” Niall interrupts. “You think for a second Sari or Iskander think me last name’s Walsh?”

“Obviously not, since I’ve literally heard them call you Mr. Horan. But if Walsh is your fake Australian identity,” Harry insists, “then you better stop calling me that stupid Hamberto name cos Niall Walsh’s the real sixth member of One Direction. The _dullest_ one.”

“Niall Walsh never got the best parts in any of the songs,” Niall agrees sadly. “Got left behind in hotels and no one noticed. Louis always ate his share of lunch. Poor, poor Niall Walsh. Bet he and Hamberto had great adventures, when none of us were looking.” He waggles his brows. “If you get my meaning.”

“Ugh,” says Harry.

“Rather thought that’d be kinky enough to interest you,” Niall says.

“It’s not kinky,” Harry says. “It’s alarming how much time you spend thinking up imaginary friends.”

“It’s all these creative juices bubblin’ in me,” Niall says. “Gotta go somewhere or I’ll burst.” He peers at Harry. “No, really, what’s eating you?” He leaves the armchair, comes over, and drops himself onto Harry, which means pushing him backwards and straddling him. He digs his fingers under Harry’s billowy shirt and into the soft flesh between his ribs. Harry flails, trying to buck him off, and ends up elbowing Niall in the nose. “Fuck, ow!” Niall says. 

“Soz!” Harry bites out. “I just—” he stops flailing. “Jeff called.”

Niall, still rubbing his nose, waits for him to finish.

“Got a meeting with a bigshot producer,” Harry says, meeting Niall’s gaze and holding it. “Gotta head back to L.A.”

“Anyone I know?” 

“Don’t recognize the name,” Harry says. “So I guess they weren’t a big deal in 2019. Jeff’s booked me a plane ticket for tomorrow. Adelaide to Sydney to L.A.”

Niall considers this. “Need a lift to Adelaide?”

“Could do,” Harry says, throat tight. Niall makes a little sighing sound and drops down onto his elbows so that his face is only a few inches from Harry’s. Harry goes cross-eyed trying to look at him. He swallows. “It’s only for a few days,” he says. “Then my schedule’s free again and I could, er, come back. If you’re not sick of me yet.”

“Yeah, do that,” Niall says. “My handyman can’t simply leave my porch unfinished, after all.” He cups Harry’s jaw and pulls him up for a kiss. The pressure that’s been been coiled inside Harry’s stomach relaxes somewhat.

“If space-time unspools while I’m gone, you better not jump back without me,” he warns.

“Promise I won’t,” Niall says. 

Harry imagines what it might be like, left behind in this future by himself. Some of what he’s thinking must show on his face, because Niall bumps their noses together and kisses him again. “For real. I promise.”

“ _Good_ ,” says Harry, even if he doesn’t know how Niall would keep that promise, if space-time was knocking at his door. But he proceeds in the imminently more urgent task of taking Niall’s clothes off. Niall helps him, tripping over his trousers as he kicks them off and flings himself on top of Harry again, starting to grind. With his tongue sliding into Harry's mouth, and light catching on his cheekbones, he's very much something Harry wants to eat whole.

Niall divests Harry of his skinnies and pauses. “Why aren’t you wearing underwear?” he asks. Harry can see his half-bitten smile, like he thinks Harry’s hopeless.

“If you think about it,” Harry says haughtily, “underwear is tyranny.”

“Oh? Tell me more.” Niall strokes Harry’s bare hip, and then dances his fingers to Harry’s cock, where he’s already leaking. He’s never gotten so wet so fast for anybody as he gets for Niall. 

“Ah — um, yeah,” Harry gasps. “What’s the real function of underwear anyway? What’s the point of wearing it?”

“Something something hygiene, I reckon.” Niall kisses his belly.

“That’s what they _want_ you to think,” Harry says. “Big Underwear. They want you to buy hordes and hordes of pants, when really—” he squirms as Niall bites his laurels. “It just gets in the way of shagging. An extra hassle. A _wall_ if you will.”

“So you decided this morning not to put on a wall?” Niall licks his moth.

“I pictured you naked and I became an optimist,” Harry says. He sits and hauls Niall in for a long, sloppy kiss. “Also I really wanna ride you.”

“Then do it,” Niall says indulgently. “Does Mr. Optimist have any lube on him?”

“Shit, no, it’s upstairs,” says Harry. He gets up and holds out a hand. Niall takes it, and then Harry’s dragging him to Niall’s bedroom. Their bedroom, really, when you consider that Harry’s not slept anywhere else for the past week. Harry grabs the lube and the rubber from the nightstand, and then he’s settled over Niall, one knee on each side, as he slicks his own fingers and starts pressing them in.

“Love watching you like this,” Niall murmurs, pinching his nipples. Harry groans in agreement as he opens himself up, rolling his hips and making tiny mewling sounds. Niall’s breathing shallowly beneath him. He rubs his hard cock along Harry’s thigh, trailing precome, a reminder of what Harry’s got coming. The feel of it, silky and hot, slimy between the folds of foreskin, drives Harry even wilder.

Somehow they manage to get the rubber on Niall, and then. Sinking down on Niall’s cock is the best feeling he’s ever had. Harry can feel everything inside his body spreading open, unfurling, easing into sweet, painful pleasure. He swears he can count Niall's heartbeat in his throat. Niall’s swiping Harry’s hair from his eyes, muttering nonsense. 

“You’re so pretty, sitting on my dick,” Niall says, and Harry flushes. Bows his back so that Niall can see every one of his tattoos. Make it a ride worth remembering. Niall doesn’t fight him when he sets the pace, and Harry takes it slow, until they’re both sweating and aching, rucking up the sheets, and Harry can hear his own endless groaning. 

“Bet you say that to everyone who — ngh, bounces on your knob.”

“Nah.” Niall kisses his ear. “Only the gorgeous ones.” And jesus, maybe Harry is more of a hopeless slag than he thought, because he can feel himself tighten at Niall’s praise. He digs his nails into Niall’s shoulders and holds on for balance as he fucks down. Finds the right angle for Niall to pierce him, keeps hammering at it, and fuck, fuck, fuck, he’s coming his brains out. Niall grips him and starts thrusting, setting his own brutal rhythm while Harry’s having a massive orgasm on his cock. 

Harry orgasms until he’s sure there’s nothing left in him to spend, and then he’s moaning, oversensitive, clutching the headboard as Niall uses his arse and pounds to completion.

“See?” Harry says, lying on top of Niall afterwards, sticky and gross but too content to move. He licks the sweat off Niall’s throat while Niall palms his backside tiredly. “I’m an optimist.”

 

:::

 

He’s in L.A, is what he is. Loose white shirt unbuttoned to his navel, sunglasses hooked in the collar. Staring out the window at the washed out concrete of LAX as his plane touches down and the flight attendant’s voice comes on, saying they’re free to activate any transmitting devices. Harry wonders why anybody still bothers to say that in 2024, when everybody surely knows no one’s mobile is going to bring down the systems. 

It’s comforting in an oddish way, like the champagne they serve him, the ding of the seatbelt sign when they hit turbulence over some Pacific islands, or the free inflight magazine he’s read all the way through. Used to be, as a spotty lad fresh off X-Factor, he’d see articles in these magazines on the best new hotels in the world, or the top spots to eat when vacationing in Greece, and he’d have a laugh, because that could never be him. 

Now it feels like there’s multiple Harrys. Not just now-Harry and future-Harry, but a Harry who’s done all those things, lived that biggish life, and the Harry who’s currently on a plane crossing an equator, whilst pieces of him have been left behind on a tucked-away vineyard in Australia. His fingernails are stubby and dirty. He’s got kiss-marks sucked onto his thighs. He didn’t know that this new Harry could exist. He didn’t know a lot of things coming into this.

There’s a piece in the magazine about wine pairings that mentions Australian shiraz. He bookmarks it for Niall.

His house is clean and quiet when he drags his luggage over the doorstep. He throws himself onto his leather couch and pulls out his phone. _text me when you get this_ , he sends Niall. He opens a time zone converter app. It’s three a.m. at Twin Boughs. He watches the seconds hand on the clock move.

Even as he fires off the text, his phone starts to blow up with messages from Jeff, from his publicist, from other L.A. people. _You at your house yet? I’m sending a car over right away_. 

No rest for the wicked, Harry reflects, and someone (his housekeeper, probably) has filled the fruit bowl. He shines an apple on his shirt and bites into it. Waits with his phone on his knees, studying the artful photos on his walls, until Jeff’s car slithers into his driveway and he gets ushered to his first appointment. Not the producer meeting yet. Something to do with his legal team. Harry seems to have acquired a new lawyer for every year spent on earth.

Everyone’s proper nice to him, asking about his health. Harry’s confused until he remembers that he’s supposed to be on rest from surgery, and then he plays it up, looking wan and pitiful, which it turns out he has a talent for. He texts Niall again. _all these ‘poor Harrys’, like i’m not supposed to be a thirty-year-old old grown man, but some poodle_.

It’s five a.m. in Australia, and Niall texts back a picture of a poodle and then a picture of Harry with bedhead. 

_point taken_. Harry stifles his laugh before looking appropriately pathetic for the next lawyer who needs his attention. Jeff, from across the room, raises his eyebrows.

“Need your head here, H,” he says, catching him at the sidebar pouring himself water with lemons. “Not elsewhere.”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry says, because Jeff’s put up with a lot from him in the past few months. “I’m in.”

He’s doing his best. That’s the real thing his teachers always wrote on his reports: that Harry does the best he can. Future-Harry’s career is no joke, and Harry absolutely doesn’t want to fuck it up, even if moving through his days is like driving down a dark road with broken headlights and only the beams of oncoming traffic to scatter across your windshield. He goes to his meetings. He does the research ahead of time so he knows what they're talking about. He grabs lunch with friends, and when they ask what he’s been up to, how he’s feeling, he makes sure to smile serenely and say _not much, I’m fine_. Turns the conversation around to them instead.

On his third day in L.A, he glances at his latest text and halts in his steps. 

_Hey its Liam_

_Im in town. Lets get coffee???_

Seeing Liam in the coffeeshop, wandering in with his hands in his puffer vest, it’s the reopening of a wound Harry didn’t even know was there. He has to close his eyes against it, it surprises him so much, and when they’re open again Liam’s slipping into the chair across from him, giving him a cautious smile. Liam hasn’t smiled like that since the days they first met, when he was still trying to figure Harry out, uncertain of what he’d find.

“‘s kind of crowded in here,” Harry says. “Wanna grab our coffee and go?”

“Works for me,” Liam says, and Harry wants to raise his phone and take a surreptitious picture for Niall so they can goggle at it later: Liam with a full beard, plaid shirt, heavy boots. He looks like he just climbed off a mountain. 

They get their coffees, but there’s nowhere to go where they won’t be papped, and already they’re drawing stares, so they end up sitting in Liam’s car, parked in a side alley. All the most important talks of Harry’s recent life happen in parked cars, it seems. The angle’s off. He keeps craning his neck so he can stare at Liam, not even sure where to begin.

Liam’s always been worse than Harry at silences. He’s the first to give in. “Christ,” he says, shaking his head, “this feels weird. When have I ever not known what to say to you, Haz?”

“I’ll start then,” Harry says. “How’s Pez? How’s the kids?”

“They’re great,” Liam says. 

“Living in London these days?”

“Yup.”

“I was in London not too long ago,” Harry offers. “Saw Zayn and his kid.”

“That’s, um, that’s great too.” Liam keeps shaking his head, like he’s trying to dislodge a piece of persistent earwax. “How’s he doing?”

“Honestly? Surprisingly not as much of an arsewipe.” Harry brings his coffee to his mouth and sips it. Looks out the window where someone’s come into the alleyway to toss bags into the rubbish bin. _Last I talked to you, you were weeping at your own wedding_ , he wants to say to Liam, but in this timeline there’s been five years and change since then, and Harry has a very good idea of why Liam wanted to meet.

“I’m not bothering Niall,” he says. “Ask him yourself if you don’t believe me. If he wanted me out of his house, he’d tell me so. Niall’s never been afraid to have a big mouth if there’s something he don’t like.”

Liam chuckles softly. “Yeah, but all that seems to fly out the window when it comes to you.” He raises his hands. “Look, ‘m not trying to be the inquisition here. But you two’ve not even been divorced six months and you’re — what, living together? You gotta admit, it’s kind of alarming.”

One shoulder up in a half-shrug. “We’re grownups, Leemo.”

“Don’t seem like it sometimes,” Liam says. “You especially, man. Can’t let Niall go. Got to drag him through lawyer hell, make everything difficult. You know he moved to Australia to put some distance between.” He sounds helpless. “Harry, he was in pieces over you.”

That’s not us, Harry wants to say. You don’t got to worry, because that’s not us. 

“Niall’s my best friend,” Liam says. 

“And I’m, what, a stranger?” Harry snaps, worrying the sleeve on his coffee. “You don’t think that the divorce hurt me either? You think, what, I was laughing all the way through it?”

“It’s not like that,” Liam says weakly. “It’s just — it’s _Niall_.” Maybe he thinks that’s enough, that it explains everything. The sad part is, it does. It’s Niall. Everybody who’s ever met Niall has wanted to make him happy, everybody. When it comes to choosing between Niall and Harry, well, there’s no choice at all. Harry hasn’t done himself any favours, he realizes this now.

Liam looks wretched, and Harry’s heart cracks. Everybody who’s met Liam has wanted to make him happy too. 

“It’s complicated right now,” Harry says slowly. “I know it doesn’t make much sense from the outside, but me and Niall — it’s,” he breathes in, fiddles with his cup, hisses when he sploshes some coffee over the lip. “It’s messy. I can’t explain it. But we’re not hurting each other. No one’s in pieces.”

“That you know of.”

“Like I said,” Harry murmurs, “go ahead and ask him.”

Poor bearded Liam looks like he’s not sure what to believe. “Are you going back to Australia after this?”

“If he’ll have me,” Harry says, and then he adds, impulsively, “You ought to visit. Reckon he’d love to see you again. Tommo too. Bring the kids.”

“You think?” Hope enters Liam’s voice.

“No question,” Harry says, staring at him. “It’s Niall, right? He deserves to be surrounded by the people who love him best.”

“That’s not—” Liam looks out the window, then at his hands, then back at Harry. “That’s not a very Harry thing to say.”

“Fuck that Harry,” Harry replies without blinking. “It’s a brand new day.”

Liam smiles.

 

:::

 

He’s having another one of future-Harry’s dreams. He’s in Vegas, heading down to the lobby from his hotel room, when he hears the beat of laughter from the bar, and it's Niall with his mates. Harry’s been abandoned by his own mates, something to do with a text read too late, and he's already made new friends with the hotel minibar, so it's in the spirit of increasing sozzledness that he saunters up to Niall’s crew.

In the dream-memory there’s Willie, and Deo, and any number of Niall’s absurdly plentiful Devine cousins. They turn when he approaches, and Harry smiles pleasantly, leaning over to steal a sip from Niall’s drink. A drink thief, he.

He finds it hilarious how Niall’s mates immediately shift towards him, forming a human barricade, like Harry’s the vulture come to feed when he's done nothing wrong, it's Niall who’s too sensitive to keep in touch anymore. Niall looks good, blue eyes and scruff, a boy you’d take home to mother. Harry’s taken Niall home to his mum before, and woke up one morning to Niall attempting to make them all quesadillas, only to scratch the bottoms of Anne’s no-stick pans. He’d been so apologetic, and Gemma and Harry had twisted their guts laughing at his face.

Niall's not laughing in the dream, but as Harry steals another sip of his drink, he asks, blandly, _Any good?_

And Harry replies, _Pineappley_. Looks this way and that, then leans into Niall's space. _Wanna check out the slot machines?_ He’s flirty and husky-voiced, determined to live up to every bad thing Niall's mates believe of him.

They're not married (or divorced) yet, but if this is a memory all that is going to change by the end of the night. For now, neither Harry or Niall in the dream know this, and all Harry can hear is the tempo of the blood in his eardrums. He watches Niall's slow dimmer-switch of a smile. Niall's had some drinks too. 

He expects a no but Niall says yes. With that smile, that smile that's the beginning of all of Harry's endings. 

Harry wakes up, and his plane is coasting into Adelaide. He has a bead bracelet on his wrist that Liam’s daughter made (“here,” Liam’d said. “I told her I was going to meet her Uncle Harry and she wants you to have this”). He’s got red, veiny webs in his eyes and a bullfrog lodged in his throat. When they're taxing to their gate he checks his messages and there’s a text from Niall. _waitin outside_

 _How do you even know my flight #_ , replies Harry whose plan was getting a driver and creeping into Twin Boughs in the middle of the night. 

_Blood sacrifice_ , is Niall's reply. Liam, Harry thinks. _Hurry up. Startin t get recognized here_

 _Too late !_ is the text that comes in as Harry's picking up his bags. _Fan spotted me. Meet u in the loo ?_

_Why Niall, didn't think you were the type._

_If i wanted to seduce u think i could do better than the airport toilets_. A second later: _shit there's mor of them. Skulk,, Hammy, skulk like yr life depends on it_

Harry’s smiling as he shuffles into the arrivals, hides behind a pillar, and makes a beeline to the men's toilets. Niall's there in a snapback and worn grey joggers, absorbed in his phone. “You don't look like Niall Horan,” Harry says by way of hello. “If anything, you look like a bloke who's about to sell me a spot of weed.”

Niall grabs him and kisses him against the sinks. Harry dissolves into the kiss.

“Parked outside,” Niall whispers. “C’mon.” He hooks his fingers into Harry's belt rungs, picks up one of his holdalls, and drags him along. 

“How's everything while I was gone?” Harry asks when they're zooming down the A13, highway lights a smear of white gold in the dark. Jetlag’s settling like sediment into his muscles and he slouches in his seat with a muffled yawn. The radio’s turned down low, softly playing the new track he recorded with Ellie. He's not sure if Niall's realized that.

“It's been good,” Niall says, switching lanes. “We’re done making all the wine. It's just got to age now.”

“Does that mean all the seasonal workers are gonna leave?” 

“Nope, not yet,” Niall answers. “Sari’s gonna keep them for another two weeks to sort out things that need fixing on the farm.” He shoulder checks and changes lanes again. “Then it's time to throw a big party and say goodbye to everyone until next year.”

“Cat’ll come back again,” Harry says thoughtfully. 

“If she and Iskander haven't broken up, then yeah, no doubt,” Niall says. “Rachel probably not.”

“Definitely no Rachel, she hates it here.” Harry stretches. “D-Man yes, if his fingers are still good. Mareme maybe? Though her kid’s getting older. Godfrey nah, he’ll be in school.”

“Too bad, losing your biggest fan,” Niall chimes, and Harry marvels at the slippery strangeness of it: these people he never realized he could know, the disappointment of seeing them go, and the suggestion that he and Niall might stick around long enough to see 2025. He’s not sure which notion he should start examining first.

They chat some more about the employees, about what still needs fixing on the vineyard grounds (Harry has plenty of suggestions). Then Harry catches his name said several times in a row on the radio, and oh great, the DJ’s talking about him and Ellie, and rumours of dating, being seen in L.A together. Harry turns off the radio.

“Obviously not,” he says, but Niall merely snickers.

“How _was_ L.A anyway?” he wonders. “Heard Liam cornered you. Asked you about your intentions.” He sings out the last word.

Harry shows him the bracelet. “We worked it out, I think. The rest of it — eh. Industry grind.” He shares a few details, glossing over most of it when he can't be sure how interested Niall is. It's not future-Niall's world anymore. 

But Niall keeps interrupting him with specific questions, about Harry’s contracts, about his next single, about his plans, about people they both know, and when Harry hems and haws over his answers, Niall sounds exasperated. “I'm asking, aren't I?” he says, and Harry realizes that he really is.

It feels wonderful, after that, to tell Niall everything, to have a second brain turn over the puzzles of this future that Harry's not yet figured out, to shriek with laughter at Harry's fuckups at pretending to be future-Harry. “It's so bloody embarrassing,” Harry moans. “Like I get that everyone thinks future-Harry’s an eccentric so it's on brand, but that's sort of worse, innit? To realize everyone thinks you're actually as dumb as a post. God.” He folds his arms petulantly while Niall shakes with mirth.

“And all this new tech, these new apps,” Harry continues. “Someone told me they'd pizza me our meeting details and I was like, huh? What the fuck? Pizza what?”

“No idea what that is, mate,” Niall says cheerfully. “Maybe we ought to ask Zayn.”

“I _tried_. He sent me the _monkey emoji_.”

“Cold, bruh.”

The thing Harry most wants when they get to Twin Boughs is a shower. As hot a shower as the old pipes can manage. He unpacks his favourite shampoos and body washes, and lines them on the rim of the tub. He’s busy sudsing his hair and getting intimate with his loofah while Niall wanders in and out, looking for laundry and brushing his teeth. Niall takes a piss, and Harry pops his head from behind the curtain. “Don’t flush!” he yelps, but Niall flushes and Harry shrieks. He flings himself to the opposite end of the shower.

Niall, the absolute tosser, is waiting for him in bed by the time Harry finishes showering. He’s reading his wine encyclopedia, bent on one day reaching the zinfandels. “Your hair’s sopping wet,” he comments as Harry climbs under the covers. “You know it always looks hideous if you sleep on it wet.”

“Yeah, but,” Harry yawns, “doesn't matter here. If I look hideous.” He’s too tired to blow dry it tonight.

“True,” says Niall. “I'm gonna turn off the lamp now.” He sets aside his book; takes off his glasses and folds them on the nightstand. _What a grandpa_ , Harry thinks.

“‘kay,” Harry replies, and closes his eyes. He’s traveled a long way today. He sleeps.

 

:::

 

For all that Harry’s been a teen idol since he was sixteen, and has remained some strange chimera of an international sex symbol since, he’s generally been indifferent to his own body. It used to be he was uncomfortable in it, when it did annoying things like shoot up in growth spurts that made his bones ache and his limbs ungainly, or have a roll of stomach paunch that’d refuse to go away. He didn’t know what to do with himself when there were always photographers and fans looking at him, assessing him. He thought if he slouched, there’d be less body to worry about for everyone.

Since then, his body’s something he’s learned to live with. Decorate with tattoos. Something he wears. (And he’s not even wearing his own body right now, is he). 

But lately he’s been thinking that maybe the only reason he’s never much liked his body (any of them) is because he was never using it for its greatest potential: fucking Niall. In showers, on couches, over tables, against the wall, and this too: a lazy morning, and they’re curled up in bed, Niall’s back to Harry’s chest, and Harry’s fingering Niall from behind, dribbling lube onto the sheets. 

Harry tucks Niall's head under his chin, inhaling the smell of night-sweat and dried hairspray. He murmurs raspy encouragement, rolling his hips against Niall’s perfect arse as his thumb and forefinger spread him open, circling round and round Niall’s hole. Niall’s squirming, already too turned on to form words. When Harry slides a finger inside, Niall squeezes down on it and keens.

Harry takes his time scissoring him, watching the way sun and shadow open the secret kingdom that is Niall’s skin, the fine dark hairs, the curve of his shoulder, the salty-musk taste of it on Harry's tongue. He gets Niall so ready that Harry's fingers pump in and out with barely any resistance. He wraps his other hand around Niall’s cock. Squeezes it playfully, and laughs at Niall’s vicious curse.

“Feels so good,” Harry groans when he sheathes himself inside Niall’s body, his cock one long brazen ache. He can hear the messy hitch of Niall’s breath when Harry enters him, the ensuing moan. Can feel Niall tender and tight around him. Harry digs his nose in Niall’s hair and clutches his hips, waiting for the go-ahead. 

“Uh, ngh, fuck,” Niall gasps. Harry starts fucking him with tiny shallow thrusts. Getting him used to it, and testing him too. Setting an unhurried pace while they’re on their sides, giving him only a scant few inches at a time until Niall’s begging for more. Harry looks down so that he can watch his dick push into Niall’s arse, into Niall’s lovely pink hole. 

Niall wails when Harry finally picks up the pace; it sounds like the sweetest relief. Harry plasters himself to Niall’s back and starts snapping his hips harder and faster. Niall gets obscenely loud when Harry starts nailing his prostate. He quakes in Harry’s arms. “Oh my god,” he says, “oh _god_.”

“This reminds me,” Harry says conversationally, still fucking. “You know what future-Harry has on his fridge in L.A?” He treats Niall to a particularly hard thrust and Niall moans at the top of his lungs. 

“Don’t — care,” Niall says, chin pressed to his chest, bearing Harry’s thrusts. 

“The birthday card you gave me,” Harry says. “ _To Hamberto Swisher-Fipper-Aisles, my favourite bandmate.”_ He reaches around and starts wanking Niall, and Niall loses it completely, sounds like a cat in heat. 

“What a screamer,” Harry says, pleased. He grips Niall’s hips harsh enough to leave bruises and sets a long, ruthless ride. He gives himself over to the gorgeous, lush heat of Niall’s body and in the back of his eyelids when he closes them, he can still see it: that card, where it was. Thinks: _future-Harry must be really hung up on you_ , and then he’s groaning too, planting his noises in Niall’s hair while Niall cries out loud enough to bring the house down. 

“Harry,” he shouts, heaving, while Harry, with his mouth hanging open, spurts inside the rubber, inside Niall. They stay locked together panting for a long time.

His body did this; their bodies did this. 

Harry never knew, before, that they could.

 

:::

 

“Is it supposed to look so grey?” Harry wonders.

“Dunno, it’s dirt,” Niall says. “How’re you supposed to tell?”

Harry gets on his hands and knees, sniffs the patch of his garden where he’s concerned. It smells like soil and rain from last night, with an earthy whiff of fertilizer. Normal garden smells to his untrained nose. But the colour doesn’t look right to him, and he leans back on his haunches. “Let’s ask Sari,” he decides.

“You ask her.” Niall pushes himself off the fence. “I’m goin’ back to work. Catch you later.”

He can’t find Sari, or rather more likely, Sari doesn’t want to be found. So Harry goes for the easier target, which is Iskander, who’s oiling some of the hinges on the winery doors when he spots Harry coming for him. “Um, hello,” says Iskander, setting down the WD-40.

“Do you know anything about gardening?” 

Iskander gazes at the vineyard, where the rest of the workers are clearing the trellises, making them ready again for next year. “Yes,” he says, very evenly. 

“Got a garden question for you,” Harry says. “Come have a look? Please?” He smiles brilliantly. “If you’re not too busy.”

Iskander’s so kind-hearted, he follows Harry like a soldier to war. Listens bemusedly as Harry points out the grey spots in his garden (“it’s definitely been watered enough from last night’s rain, but do you reckon it’s too wet? Internet says the seeds can rot if it’s too wet.”) Iskander gets on his knees in the dirt to join Harry, and sifts through the soil with his fingers. “Well?” Harry asks.

“How long has it been since you planted the seeds?” Iskander wipes his hands on his overalls. “And what kind of seeds?”

Harry does the math in his head and tells him.

Iskander shakes his head. “Not enough time then. You must wait for—” he considers the English word. “Germination.”

“Shouldn’t they be ready to germinate by now?” Harry asks. “The cabbages at least. But there aren’t even any sprouts.” He broods over his tepid, non-sprouting garden. 

A coughing noise from Iskander. “Takes time.”

“Yeah, okay, but.” Harry continues to brood. “You’re sure nothing’s wrong with them?”

“It is possible,” Iskander acknowledges. “Like you said, the seeds could have rotted, or maybe birds ate the seeds—” Harry’s eyes widen, he built this nice solid fence to keep out wild animals but he hadn’t even thought of birds. “Or,” and Iskander sounds sheepish, “the seeds might have been too old to plant.”

“You mean I could’ve bought bad seeds?” Harry asks. Iskander’s gaze flicks away shyly. “There goes my plans for tormenting Nialler with endless cabbage soup.” 

“Of shoes, and ships, and sealing-wax,” Iskander mumbles. “Of cabbages and kings.”

“Say what?” Harry says. “That sounds familiar.”

“It’s from — a book. My mother was an English translator in Jakarta. She used to read it to me,” Iskander says. “Sorry, my mind, um, traveled elsewhere.” He dabs nervously at his forehead. “Did you have another question about your garden?”

“No, no,” Harry sighs. “You’ve made your point. Just wait and see. Be patient. I’m normally so good at patient too. I promise.” He sees Niall ambling back down the road, cupping a hand over his eyes against the midday sun.

“Oi, what’d you grab Iskander for?” Niall says. “I actually need my winery manager for, y’know, the winery.”

Iskander rallies to Harry’s defense. “Mr. Harry only needed me for a second. It was no bother.” The look on Niall’s face says he knows Iskander’s got a crock full of shit, and that Harry’s always a bother, but Harry grins and slings an arm over Niall’s shoulder. Leans in close, and makes Niall shiver.

“Iskander’s being a good Gryffindor, helping me in my time of vegetable distress,” Harry says. 

“Iskander’s definitely a Gryffindor,” Niall says slowly.

“What’s a Gryff—” Iskander doesn’t even attempt to finish the word. 

“It’s also from a book,” Harry’s quick to explain. “Harry Potter. Niall and I’ve been reading it.”

“Ah,” Iskander says. A pause. “I think Cat reads them.”

“Iskander’s a Gryffindor, and I’m a Ravenclaw,” Harry decides. “And Niall’s—” he pokes Niall in the stomach, listen to Niall wheeze. “One hundred percent Hufflepuff.”

“Certainly,” says Iskander in a long-suffering tone that makes him sound, for a moment, exactly like his sister. “I’m going to, uh, go now. If you need my help again, let me know.” He offers a smile. “I am sure your garden is fine, Mr. Harry. Water, soil, air, and time. That is all it takes.”

“I could’ve told you that,” Niall says after Iskander leaves. “And no way are you a Ravenclaw.” He slides his fingers under Harry’s shirt and rubs at his nipples. Turns his cheek so that it’s nestled against Harry’s and nudges their mouths together for a soft kiss.

“Am _so_.” Harry kisses back, then sways. He glances to check Iskander’s gone far enough down the path that he won’t notice. When he looks back, Niall’s face has grown shuttered.

“I mean,” Harry says, “you probably don’t want—?”

“Don’t care,” Niall shrugs. “Whatever. They already think so.”

“I figured—” Harry stops. He rakes his fingers through Niall’s hair. “I figured you didn’t want to give him proof. I don’t care, not really.” Niall’s face softens. He kisses Harry again. 

“I really am a Ravenclaw, though,” Harry says. 

“Actually, I think you’re a Slytherin,” says Niall, hands on Harry’s hips. He’s smirking.

“What, really?” Harry’s struggling not to laugh. “Is it cos—” he fails, and does start laughing, the kind of goose-honk laugh he tried never to reveal in interviews because no one could ever take him seriously after that. “Is it cos I’m a — bad boy?”

“Oh my god, you’re like the most embarrassing porno,” Niall says, but he lets Harry laugh into his shoulder for a bit. They’re still standing there with their arms around each other, and Niall doesn’t seem inclined to move. “Erm, what’re you trying to look at?” Niall asks when Harry cranes up so he can stare at the sky.

“Thought I saw a star.”

“At this time of day?” Niall looks up too. “Think that’s a plane, mate.”

“Mm,” Harry says. “But Godfrey was right.”

“About what?”

“It really is different stars here from home,” Harry hums. 

Niall’s lashes brush Harry’s face. “Which home?”

“Dunno, any home,” says Harry. He’s had so many of them. “But it makes me wonder. About time travel.” He can feel Niall start to laugh, so Harry crab-claw jabs him until he’s settled down. “About alternate realities too,” Harry says. “Cos if time travel’s real, then maybe other things are real. Like — past lives.”

“I’d say I don’t believe in past lives, but you’re right. Who the hell knows anymore.” Niall takes a step back so that he can look at Harry properly. Harry feels pinned by the blue of his stare until Niall smiles, and the spell’s broken. “Bet past-life you was a shepherd. In one of those centuries that had sheep roaming everywhere over the hills.”

“So, Ireland, any time in history.”

“Pretty much,” Niall says. “And past-me was a Viking.”

“Yeah, cos you’re a real manly man,” Harry says. 

“Thanks,” says Niall.

“That was sarcasm.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Niall says, and kisses Harry again. “I was a big strapping Viking he-man, and I, like, bring my ship to shore, and you’re there with your sheep and your soulful fucking eyes, and you beg me to not raid your village, and I’m like, what’ll you give me in return, pretty boy, and you—”

“Who’s the embarrassing porno now?” Harry interrupts. “And what the hell? Of all the past lives we could’ve had, you want the one where you fuck me on top of _sheep_? We could’ve been Cleopatra and Mark Antony! Romeo and Juliet! Tristan and Isolde!”

“Two-thirds of those aren’t even real people,” Niall says. “And what’s wrong with sheep?”

“You’re a national cliche,” Harry tells him, and, “mmmph!” when Niall pulls him in to snog him silent. 

 

:::

 

Niall says he’s got a surprise for Harry, and Harry very naturally thinks it must be a sex surprise, so he takes off all his clothes and climbs into bed, only to have Niall toss his pants at him and say, “Get dressed, you lunatic, we’re going for a drive.”

“I hope you’re not really serious about the sheep,” Harry says, lifting up hips to tug his pants on. 

When he makes his way downstairs Niall’s got two thermos of coffee waiting, and a granola bar that he tosses at Harry’s head. Harry’s reflexes are — not quite world-class, and he misses the bar, watches it fall pitifully to the ground. Niall starts shuffling him along to the truck. Harry delights in walking as slowly as possible if only to make Niall bristle, but then he gives up, moves along briskly, and says, “No, really, where’re we going?”

Niall sticks the key in the ignition. “To the land of your people, Mr. Swisher-Fipper-Aisles.” He starts reversing down the driveway, then turns onto the road leading east.

Harry furrows his brow. It’s too early in the morning to think. “You mean white people?” he guesses. “Is this a froyo thing?” He glances at the roof of the car and blinks. “And, erm, why is there a One Direction poster up there?”

“What the fuck?” says Niall, who looks up too.

“Eyes on the road!” Harry barks.

“It’s the countryside, are you kidding me, no one needs eyes to drive,” Niall says. He reaches with one hand and yanks the poster down. “Goddamnit it, Godfrey. I let him borrow my truck for an errand and this is how he repays me.”

“With mustaches on our faces,” Harry says, grabbing the poster from him and peering at it intently. Harry’s mustache is particularly curly and nefarious-looking. Niall’s looks like a gravity-challenged walrus. 

“There’s something very Freudian about all this,” Niall says darkly. “I worry about that lad.”

“He told me I’m his favourite member of 1D,” Harry brags. “So clearly he’s got stellar taste.”

“Yeah, definitely Freudian,” Niall says. “There’s only one D he wants in this world, and that’s—” He glances over and sneers. Stretches out a hand, and for a moment Harry thinks Niall’s going to give him a friendly grope, but Niall’s hand lands on the thermos instead. He starts unscrewing the cap, one eye still on the road.

“You’re a pervert, Niall,” Harry says primly. He rolls down the window and shuts his eyes. Listens to the silken whisper of the trees, the snap-crackle-pop of the gravel. Red leaves bursting a scarlet canopy above their heads.

“‘sides,” Niall says, after a gulp of coffee, “you’re his favourite member of the band? ‘s hardly original. Like I said, whole bloody world’s gagging for you.”

Harry sniffs, though secretly he agrees. “Then that makes you not very original either, don’t it.”

“What,” Niall’s smiling, “you think you’re my favourite bandmate?”

He knows Niall’s only teasing, but there’s a discordant twang in Harry’s chest. Something very small inside him feels stupidly hurt. He thinks, _got a piece of paper to prove that future-you thought so, for a night_. He starts unwrapping his granola bar and bites into it, doesn’t take Niall up on his bait. Niall’s smile disappears and he goes back to watching the highway, following the A20 past Truro, towards Annadale. 

Finally, Niall takes a turn down a spindly road and stops on someone’s acreage. There’s a grand old manor house with a half dozen cars already parked in the driveway, and orchards and a stable beyond. “When I said land of your people,” Niall says, turning off the engine, “I meant old dead people.”

“Is this a haunted house?” Harry demands. “You know I’ve marmalade spine when it comes to these things. Unless your plan _is_ for me to cling to you and cry, you kinky bastard.”

“No, Haz,” Niall says, “it’s not a haunted house, it’s a— well, follow me and find out.” He gets out of the car and marches up the path to the house. Harry follows him with increasing trepidation, because Niall’s not Louis per se, and Harry-baiting isn’t top on his list of favourite things to do, but it’s at least in the top ten. Harry can already see some people on the front porch, mostly older folk, well-dressed, and the women have got hats that any bird would be proud to nest in. 

Niall opens the door for Harry, while everyone gives them strange looks but moves aside. Then Harry steps inside the house, to the humongous lobby with actual chandeliers, and oh, he gets it. He hides his smile behind his hand.

“It’s an estate sale,” Niall says. “Vintage dingle-dangles everywhere.”

And Harry’s slept with loads of people before, even people that he liked, but none of them have ever took him antiquing. If they weren’t in a stuffy house, side-by-side with ladies who’re literally holding onto their pearls, he’d get on his knees for Niall. Instead he starts floating through the rooms, examining the stuff that’s on sale, calling Niall over excitedly when he sees something he likes, which is a lot of it, to be honest. Whoever’s house this is had a raging hardon for old maps and clocks, and Harry has to clutch Niall’s arm not to swoon.

“How’d you find out about this?” 

“Not exactly my wheelhouse, eh? D-Man mentioned it,” Niall replies. “This was an old art school teacher of his.”

“That’s an _astrolabe_ ,” Harry gawks. “I’ve always wanted to grow up and be the sort of person other people look at and say, ‘yep, dude’s got an astrolabe.’ It’s a dream of mine, Niall. A _dream_.”

“God, you’re weird,” Niall says, but he’s grinning, clearly pleased with himself. 

“I’m so glad we have the truck,” Harry says, twisting his hands, “cos, uh, fair warning, I may want all of this.”

“If you think about it, this is the best kind of shopping,” Niall points out, following Harry into the dining room where Harry has raptures over the silverware. “Cos it’s future-us who’ll have to put up with storing this crap after we jump back.”

Harry’s not even listening. He’s made a dash for a rack of smoking jackets. Future-Harry’ll thank him for it.

It’s a very good day. They all are, lately, and it’s frightening. They browse the estate sale for the rest of the morning, and then they go town-hopping, coasting up and down Barossa Valley poking into whatever catches their fancy. Niall drives them home in the evening with a truck bed full of Harry’s new toys (ornamental clocks and watch fobs and a writing desk that looks like something Jane Austen might’ve used), and then he starts dinner while Harry hauls his catch in and starts snapping photos for Instagram. The fear’s a tickle in the back of his brain the whole while, because good things are hard things; this he knows. Harry’s good at getting things he wants. He’s not so good at keeping them.

Niall makes a mean curry, and this is something Harry didn’t know, something Niall must’ve learned in the years they didn’t see each other much. “Want a beer?” Niall offers, and when Harry says yes, he adds conspiratorially, “Don’t tell Sari or Iskander. Beer’s the forbidden fruit.” He waggles his eyebrows. “But I don’t actually wanna drink red wine with everything.”

“I swear I’m starting to piss red,” Harry agrees, accepting the cold, sweating bottle. “I need a wine break.”

“Would you say that your body’s a machine that needs a… _wind-down_?” Niall says dramatically.

“Ohhh, nice one.”

“Thanks,” Niall says. “Cheers.” 

It’s a very good day and a very pleasant evening. Harry, Niall, their growing pile of empties, and Harry in the sitting room with Niall’s guitar on his lap, faffing around with it. Niall’s reading out loud from the third Harry Potter book, and Harry’s listening with one ear while picking through simple melodies. Niall taught him some of those melodies, long ago. He thinks of all the shows they’ve played together, all the times he’s turned around onstage to see Niall with his guitar and his earpiece, grinning back at him, shoelaces flapping. Niall was never good at tying his shoelaces. _Everything comes back to you_ , Harry thinks.

“You weren’t my favourite,” he says.

“‘ _Three turns should do it_ ,’” Niall’s reading, and then he halts. “Uh, what?”

“When we were starting out,” Harry says. Doesn’t know why he’s telling Niall this when the conversation’s already moved on, but it feels important, somehow, that he does, that Niall knows. “I liked Louis best. You were nice enough, I suppose, cute face, big laugh. But not, like, someone I’d think about when you weren’t around.” 

Niall’s got the funniest expression. Harry continues, looking down at the guitar. “But then when things went sideways with Louis, I looked up, and there you were, tryin’ to be my friend.” He plays a chord, holds it. “You were a good friend. So maybe it weren’t an—” he pauses. “An instant connection between us. But.”

“But?” 

“All things change,” Harry says, “and I changed too.” He swallows. “Maybe I’m still changing.”

“Right,” says Niall, and he looks away, out the window, at the dark. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, “if I hurt you.”

Silence from Niall, but Harry ploughs on. “Releasing my first album when I did. You said it was — like a challenge, and I guess I thought, that’s what we _do_. But maybe I was selfish about it.” He wants Niall to understand. Of course Harry’s selfish, of course Harry puts his own interests first, but in their jobs, their lives, what’s the alternative, to chip away at parts of himself until there’s nothing left? There’s always wolves at the door. Harry won’t say yes to the wolves.

“Why’re you talking about this now?” Niall asks. He looks genuinely baffled. 

“Dunno,” Harry says. Hunches his shoulders. “Guess I’m a ruiner of nice days.”

“You aren’t — oh, for fuck’s sake.” Niall slides onto the couch beside him. “You’re a needy little thing, aren’t ya,” he says, and Harry shudders at the timber of his voice.

“Yeah,” he says, and lets Niall kiss him. Lets Niall kiss him until Harry’s a boneless mess in his arms, grinding mindlessly until they tumble clean off the couch and hit the carpet, Harry’s elbows turning into deadly weapons. Niall rolls them over and presses kiss after kiss into Harry's mouth. Harry lies there and takes it, feeling like something cut loose and feral. He’s groaning when Niall pushes him against the couch. Niall grabs at his hair, kicking Harry’s knees apart, and shoving down Harry’s trousers. When Niall slides into him from behind, it’s the purest relief. They fuck like animals, Harry’s face in the cushions, and he doesn’t have to think about anything, his brain’s so clean, so free.

 

:::

 

His phone buzzes. It’s Louis again. The same text he’s been sending for the past three weeks, which is varying strings of question marks clumped together. Erudite as always, that Louis. _answer me you wanker !_ follows.

Niall’s phone goes off a moment later, and Niall snatches it off the counter. 

“Tommo for you as well?” Harry asks sympathetically. 

“Won’t leave me alone,” says Niall, reading what’s on his screen. “And Liam keeps on sending me these _concerned_ messages, reminding me that I really can talk to him if I want, there’s no _shame_ in wanting to talk about my feelings. It’s like he’s gunning to be my new Dr. S.”

“Zayn keeps sending me winky faces.” Harry pauses. “It’s destroying my soul.”

“Clearly our mates are killing themselves with curiosity,” Niall says. “Should we send them a selfie then? Proof we’ve not murdered each other?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Harry herds him against the counter. “I’ll take the picture. My arm’s longer. Evolution’s designed me to take better selfies.”

“Evolution doesn’t design anything, that’s the whole opposite of what evolution is,” Niall says, but he turns his face dutifully towards the camera.

Harry snaps the photo and sends it to everyone he needs to stop peppering him with questions. He sends it to Niall too. _he blinded me with science_ , he writes. In the photo Niall’s got his eyes closed and his mouth hanging open. He looks like a frog run over by traffic. Harry sets it as his new phone background. 

Within a minute, Louis’ back. _IS THAT REALLY IRISH OR HAV YOU KILLED HIM AND STUFFED HIS BODY ? ?_

Zayn follows. _is that his o face?_

 _No_ , Harry texts back. He considers adding a winky face for mutually assured destruction but Niall may actually murder him then. Niall’s staring at his own phone that’s starting to buzz nonstop in his hand, and he’s got his eyebrows pulled together that means he’s thinking about something very important. Usually golf, lately winemaking, and today about— 

“Fuck it,” Niall says suddenly. “Let’s have a party.”

“I like parties,” is Harry’s automatic response. “Wait, you mean, like, with the lads?”

“Yup.”

“Where?”

Niall spins on his heel, does a slow semicircle. “Here’s good.”

Harry’s gobsmacked. “ _Here?_ ”

“Yup.”

“You know they’ll want to bring their families. That means their kids too.”

“Their kids are criminally adorable. It’ll be fun to spoil them.” Niall cracks his knuckles. “Didn’t you say you practically invited Liam over anyway?”

“Yeah, but I figured that would be in the _future_ ,” Harry says. “When it’s future-us in charge. What if we have everyone over and blow our cover?”

“We’ve been faking it well enough so far,” Niall shrugs. “What’s the problem? If it doesn’t work, hey, there are worse things than having to explain time travel to our friends.” He plays with his phone in his hands. “Zayn can help us out.” 

Harry’s already starting to take bets on which person might believe it, and who’ll immediately turn tail and run. “It’s your place, man,” he says slowly. “As long as you’re sure.”

Niall’s smile turns his entire face reckless. “Why the hell not? What’s the worst that could happen?”

 

:::

 

“You want us to come out _next week_?” Louis is yelping over the phone. “Give a man more notice, would ya? Freddie’s got a footie game.”

“He can miss one footie game, it’s not the end of the world,” Harry says. “C’mon, Lou. Stay the weekend. See the vineyard. Get pissed on Nialler’s wine. See the porch I’ve fixed up all by myself. It’ll be brilliant.”

“You’re really flying a whole bunch of us out to Australia for a couple of days,” Louis says. “Families and all.”

“Won’t cost you a cent,” Harry promises. “Plus Niall and I are booking a floor in a Barossa hotel. Just fifteen minutes from the farm. We’ll charter a bus to drive you in and out every day. You’ll live in comfort.”

“Jesus,” Louis says. “You ever think how mad our lives are, that we’ve got this kind of money to throw around.”

“Do you want me to say yes,” Harry says, “or do you wanna bloody come?” On the other side of the study he can hear Niall on the phone with Liam, and Niall’s shouting, _"Forget your adult responsibilities! Come and get day-drunk with us!”_

Louis sighs. “Long as I can bring Poppy too.”

“Oh yeah, bring whoever you want,” Harry says. When he hangs up, he rolls his chair across the floor and tilts it backwards so that he’s looking at Niall upside down. He waits until Niall’s wrangled a yes from Liam and says, “Louis wants to bring Poppy. That’s Freddie’s nanny, right? With the barrettes? We met her at Liam’s wedding.”

“‘course he does,” Niall says absently, scribbling some notes. 

“You think they’re—?” Harry waves his arms.

“Poppy’s not into men,” Niall says. “Least that’s what Louis tells me.” He adjusts his glasses. “But she lives with Louis as, like, his roommate, and they’ve become platonic life partners or summat. That’s what Liam says anyway. Got a Full House setup going on, if by Full House you mean a pop star, a lesbian nanny, and a footie-mad eight-year-old.”

“No weirder than us, I guess.” Harry scrolls through his contacts until he finds Nick. Makes his second call. Puts him on speakerphone so that Niall can say hello too. 

“Grimmy!” Niall says brightly. “Voice of a nation!”

“Haven’t heard your boyish tones in ages, Horan,” Nick says. 

“Well, everybody tells me Harry won you in the divorce, so I suppose that’s fair,” Niall says. “No crossing enemy lines and all that.”

“You could have put up more of a fight to win me. I would’ve abandoned Harold in an instant.”

“Hey,” Harry drawls. “I’ve got dibs on you, Grimshaw. Got your bony arse locked down.”

“I hear you’re into other arses these days,” Nick says slickly, and Niall turns red. “Anyway, I can clear my schedule for that weekend. Reckon Jon can too. But head’s up, Molly’s in a cry at the drop of your hat phase, so you’ll have a weepy toddler following you around everywhere. Make sure there’s ponies. She needs ponies.”

“One of my neighbours here has a stable, gives lessons to tourists,” Niall says. “Ponies are a thing that will happen.”

“Book us some wine tours too,” Nick adds. “My body’s ready.”

“I will _not_ ,” Niall says huffily, while Harry shakes in wordless laughter. “There’s only one vineyard worth seeing in the valley, and you’re already getting the VIP treatment so don’t go cheating on me.”

After they sort the guest list out, Harry books the plane tickets, books the hotel, books the bus. Books the ponies too, and other entertainment for the kids. Follows that up by booking a contractor to come and actually finish the work on the porch, mend the fiddly bits that Harry knows he’s got wrong, mostly so Louis won’t piss himself laughing at him. Then Harry starts the business of childproofing the farmhouse for daytime guests. It’s a massive undertaking that has him obsessed with outlet covers and safety latches for days. 

“What if,” he says, jolting upright in the middle of the night and shaking Niall awake, “one of them needs a nap in the middle of the day?”

“Erggh, what,” Niall groans. 

“Babies need loads of naps,” Harry says knowledgeably. 

“Then reckon they can nap here. Got lots of empty rooms.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Harry hisses. “Where’re they gonna sleep? _Where?_ ”

“Ow, stop shouting in my ear.” Niall rolls over and ignores his silent seething.

The next day, Harry converts his old room into a nursery. Orders a crib to stuff beside the bed that’s already there, and assembles it himself. Fills the room with Lego, Duplo, and soft toys. Elephants and penguins and kangaroos galore. “Got babies on the brain?” Cat asks when Harry starts talking her ear off during lunch. 

“There’s nothing more frightening,” Harry informs her solemnly, “than being responsible for other people’s kids.”

Except maybe Niall’s job, which is to tell the workers, especially the boarders, about the houseguests that’ll be romping over Twin Boughs shortly. Harry catches him in a hushed conversation with Sari. “Don’t expect you to do anything, I swear,” Niall says. “This is strictly a me and Harry thing. If you want, I can get you and the others a hotel room too. You can take a trip to Adelaide for the weekend.”

“That’s your plan?” Sari replies. “To chase us out?”

“No!” Niall says hurriedly. “But, like, I don’t think you understand. A bunch of Irish cousins and Louis Tomlinson into the mix — _I’d_ want to be a hundred miles away if I could.”

Iskander and Cat jump on the prospect of a weekend in Adelaide (pretending they’re not going to spend it together is good for a laugh). Godfrey doesn’t mind going home and visiting friends. D-Man has a daughter he wants to see. Sari stays, though. “I’ll hole myself in my cabin with my soaps. You won’t hear a peep from me,” she promises.

“That’s not what I’m asking.” Niall rakes his hands through his quiff in frustration. “This is your home too.”

“You misunderstand,” Sari says with a straight face. “Hiding in my cabin, no one needing me to fix a broken trellis or show them where we keep the milk? This will be the best time of my life.”

 

:::

 

The morning of, Harry wakes to Niall sitting on the floor at the foot of the bed, voice hushed as he talks on the phone. All Harry can see of him is the tip of his head. “Wish you could be here, Bobby,” Niall whispers. “But you don’t gotta worry about me. I’m alright.” He’s quiet as Bobby answers, and then Niall replies, “Too smart to let him break my heart.”

He hangs up and sees Harry tucked against the pillows, watching him groggily. “Number one Harry Styles fan, he is,” Niall says wryly. 

“Bobby’s the best Horan,” Harry agrees.

“He’s secretly delighted cos he thinks future-us are getting back together.” Niall climbs onto the bed and flings himself on top of Harry. 

“Mm.” Harry palms Niall’s arse for good luck.

“What time is it?” Niall mumbles into his clavicle.

“Way too bloody early,” Harry says, glancing at the red numbers on the alarm clock, “but we still need to clean the kitchen and stock the fridge before you head out to the hotel. I’ve a list, somewhere.”

“Sorry this party’s not much of a party for you,” Niall says. “Sorry it’s so much work.” He mouths Harry’s throat, and Harry writhes against him.

“Mm,” Harry repeats. “Been thinking. What if this is the push we need to jump back to 2019? Getting all our friends into the same room. It’s big, right? It’s gotta mean something.”

“Fingers crossed.” They kiss, sloppy and morning breath-sour. 

Harry has not only a list but a master schedule of everyone’s flight that came in last night. He’d arranged drivers to pick the individual parties up from the airport and chauffeur them to the hotel. According to the texts he’s received, everything seems to have gone smoothly. Around noon Niall gets on the chartered bus, shooting the shit with the driver (who, as it turns out, is a huge golf man), and waves goodbye as they trundle off to the hotel. Harry stays behind to make sure all’s set up proper. He takes a selfie in his apron and sends it to Zayn. _Niall’s little housewife, see you soon_.

 _inevitable , really_ , Zayn replies.

An hour later, the bus returns, unloading a mass of people. Harry’s waiting on the front steps, trying not to get overwhelmed but failing, because sure there’s some people he’s seen in person in this future, but there’s plenty he hasn’t too. There’s Louis, spiky-looking as ever, with Poppy and Freddie in tow (Freddie’s in _primary school_ , how’d that happen). There’s Nick with his husband Jon, who Harry’s never met, fussing with sleepy little Molly. There’s Willie and Deo, and their families too, whooping and hollering when they see Niall, wrestling him to the dirt.

“Gerroff me!” Niall shouts, but they show no mercy, tackling Niall and sitting on his chest.

There’s Liam, Perrie, and their three children (the twins and the caboose, Liam joked in L.A.) blinking owlishly in the lemon-sweet sunlight. And they’re all wearing jeans and flannel; they look like a family of Canadian lumberjacks. Harry watches as Liam leans over and says something to Zayn, who’s got Hiba riding a pouch over his belly. Zayn’s tired eyes crinkle in a reluctant smile. Liam’s grinning.

Fikriyya’s the first person to say something to Harry. “I never thought I’d ever see all these people willingly trapped on a moving vehicle together.”

“Well,” Harry says, “if it’s Niall who’s asking.”

Her stare cuts through him. “Don’t sell yourself short.” She tucks in her hijab that’s starting to come undone. “Z would never come here just for Niall.”

Someone’s crashing into Harry, leaping onto his back. “Homewrecker turned homemaker, is it?” Louis is cackling into Harry’s ear while Fikriyya drifts back to Zayn. “How’d you get Niall to stop hating you? No, wait, I don’t wanna know. Freddie, come say hullo to your Uncle Harry. He’s a twat, but we’ve decided to forgive him for that.”

“Oh, Freddie’s already took off,” Poppy says calmly, pointing to a small body running through the fields.

“Freddie, you get back here!” Louis shouts. “Lad’s a little fly, never stops moving,” he mutters, and starts jogging to catch up.

When everyone’s scrambled off the bus, and all toilet breaks and emergency snacks have been taken care of, Niall shows them around Twin Boughs. It reminds Harry of being on tour, sussing out a new venue in whatever city they’ve landed in, except instead of a roving caravansary of band and crew, it’s a jumbled monstrosity of adults pushing strollers and kids bounding ahead of them, eager to stretch their legs. Freddie’s the clear oldest of the lot, and he gathers Liam’s twins and Willie’s daughter to him, a small fierce-eyed general with Louis’ laugh. 

“This is nice for him,” Louis says conversationally, trotting alongside Harry. “Don’t get to see the countryside very much. Was getting to be afraid Freddie wouldn’t know what a tree was.” He starts yelling when Freddie and his gang accidentally knock over Molly, and she starts crying. 

“Sorry ‘bout that, mate,” Louis says to Nick, who’s picked up his daughter and started rubbing her head. Nick rolls his eyes and doesn’t reply. Harry remembers that he and Louis don’t get on that well.

Niall elbows Harry in the gut. “Don’t let them fight,” he hisses.

“I won’t,” Harry whispers back. “I’ll be the best peacekeeper this weekend, you’ll see.”

Niall eyes Zayn, who’s steering a wide berth from Louis too. “That could be a problem too.” Anxiety’s creeping into his voice.

“Don’t _worry_ about it so much,” Harry says. “This is 2024. Everybody’s got to be a lot more mature than we remember, yeah?” He hears a shout from up ahead where Willie and Deo have started egging on Liam, who looks cross. “I mean, probably?”

“Oh Christ,” Niall bemoans, “why did I think this was a good idea? This ain’t gonna be a weekend party. It’s gonna be one giant babysitting session.”

Harry rubs his back. It seemed to work well enough when Nick did it to Molly. “If it scars us permanently, at least we have Dr. S. to tell all about it.” He looks up to see that everybody’s stopped in front of the winery and is watching them. “Or we could start snogging right now. That’d distract them good.”

“This is weird,” Perrie says loudly, eyeing them. “Seeing you two together. Anyone else feel like it’s a huge prank, and someone with a camera’s gonna leap out of the bushes and shout ‘gotcha?’”

“I mean,” Nick says, “they both _did_ have mysterious, unexplained injuries recently. Maybe all that head trauma’s done them in.”

“Harry, quick — what’s two plus two,” says Zayn, who Harry decides is a massive prat. 

“Didn’t you have surgery recently too?” Willie asks Harry. “For your vocal chords or whatever. Maybe all that anesthesia did a number on you.” 

Niall raises his voice. “Leave him alone. Harry’s _fine_. _I’m_ fine. Divorced people are allowed to be friends again, and you’re all a bunch of wankers.” He yanks open the winery door. “Got a wine tasting for you lot set up inside. Juice and crackers for the kids. And, uh, stuff for Zayn and Fikriyya too,” he adds.

“Ensuring our cooperation with booze,” Nick says. “Wily, very wily.”

“What’s the matter, you don’t drink?” Deo asks Zayn. He sounds curious.

“No,” Zayn says coldly. “Means I get to have a laugh when you’re all arse over tits.”

In spite of what Harry boasted, he’s not actually very good at keeping people from each other’s throats. Not one for confrontation, Dr. Sengupta had once remarked. His usual method is to simply slither away and come back when everyone’s sorted themselves out. It’s Niall who’s not afraid to raise his voice, to bark, “Park your arses on your chairs, everyone,” and put Zayn and Fikriyya at the end of the table with Liam and Perrie. Harry pulls up a stool and sits with them, helping Dove, the clumsier of Liam’s twins, get her straw into her juicebox. 

“So,” he hears Perrie begin, leaning into the table, “should I tell you that I read one of your graphic novels the other day and it was brilliant?”

Fikriyya’s mouth parts in surprise. 

“Freddie!” Louis roars from the other end. “Get off those machines!” Harry looks up from Dove to witness Freddie scrambling up one of the fermentation tanks. Poppy’s already rushing over. Harry meets Niall’s gaze, and they smile at each other helplessly. Niall wraps his hand around his neck and mimes choking himself. Harry, against all odds, begins to laugh. 

 

:::

 

The day settles, as all days must. Harry and Niall force feed their guests so much wine and food that everyone slips into a slow, dreamy stupor, and the afternoon passes with idle talk (punctuated by brief bursts of Louis or Deo yelling), horseback rides, long walks, snacks, naptime, more snacks, a brief attempt at arranging a footie game, and then more naps, some people retreating to the cooler house, some on blankets spread out under the trees.

“God, this is idyllic,” Nick says, slathering sun cream over Molly. “I can see why you decided to hole yourself here. I’d do it too, given half the chance.”

“s not like that,” Harry says, sitting cross-legged, wearing a daisy crown Dove made him. “You’re only seeing the good parts today. The rest of it’s all hard work, running a vineyard.”

“Yeah, but all of it’s hard work,” Nick replies, “no matter what you choose. It’s the choosing that’s the most important, I reckon.” He rubs some cream over Molly’s nose while she squirms. “There you go, love. All done now.”

Harry doesn’t reply to that. For all that things have turned out alright, there wasn’t much choice in him being here, in this timeline. In a way all of it feels good because none of it’s quite real. He sees Niall and Liam together, sharing a bottle with tipsy laughs, while Perrie and Fikriyya have their heads together, talking about something none of the rest of them can hear. 

They’re real people now, but when Harry’s back to 2019, they won’t be. They’ll be just bits of memory. Only Niall’s real, and maybe that’s why, when Niall announces he’s heading back to the house to grab some water bottles, Harry follows him. Drapes himself over Niall’s back and is handsy with him, squeezing Niall’s arse and giggling in his ear. It’ll be alright, he thinks, when they’re back to their real lives and Niall won’t want to do this anymore. Harry knows he’s only a safety net, something comforting and familiar. A temporary stop. He’ll learn to live with that.

But for now. “This could be our last night on earth,” he says, watching Niall get flustered and spill all the water he’s trying to fill the bottles with. “I had a thought. We ought to take photos and leave them for future-us, when they get back. So they’ll know what they’ve missed.”

“How do we know the photos will be here for them?” Niall asks. “We don’t even know what spot in time they’ll return to.”

“We don’t know _anything_ ,” Harry argues, fitting his hands in Niall’s pockets, “but that’s the point. We’re like — time-pilgrims. Only thing we can do is try.”

“That I can do,” Niall says. “I’m good at trying.”

Everyone’s scattered across on the farm in the evening: some groups of people here in the house, some of them in the fields, some of them borrowing bikes and exploring the valley. Harry wanders with his camera and tries to take it all in.

Here they are: Perrie and Fikriyya playing checkers on the porch with amazingly intent expressions, their shoes kicked off to the side, a plate of half-eaten watermelon slices balanced precariously on the railing, babies sleeping in carriers at their feet.

Here they are: Willie and Deo’s families showing each other how to climb a tree, finding the tallest one they can and making a competition of it, until Harry walks by and there’s rows of Devines hanging off branches like candy canes.

Here they are: Nick with Poppy in the kitchen mixing up a batch of margaritas, figuring out they have a friend in the London scene in common, and better yet, he’s done something scandalous lately (gotten up and married to a person neither of them expected), so naturally this is a source of great gossip and entertainment. Nick’s feeding Molly slices of apple as Poppy’s showing him photos on her phone.

Here they are: Louis and Freddie coming back from their bike ride, knee-scabbed and sweaty, bickering like a pair of old men about whose fault it was that Louis had a flat tire. _You didn’t even check, Dad_ , Freddie accuses, and Louis throws up hands up, eyes to the heavens. _This kid_ , he says out loud. 

Here they are: Liam and Zayn unabashedly snooping in the upstairs rooms, coming across Niall’s guitars. Sitting on Niall and Harry’s rumpled bed (“ugh, do you think they had sex on this?” and “of course they did, don’t think about it too much”) and jamming. Liam’s guitar work and Zayn’s voice, and Harry lingers outside the door for a long time, just listening. 

Night comes, and they usher everyone back on the bus to their hotel. It takes longer to locate Freddie than it ought to, but Harry finds him crawling around in the garden. “Look,” Freddie points, “stuff’s coming out.” And Harry sees that he’s right. He’d forgotten to even look, in the franticness of the day. His garden’s begun to sprout. 

He hands Freddie off to the bus. “See you in the morning,” he waves. Then he putters up to the bedroom where Niall’s already taking off his clothes and diving under the covers. 

“That was exhausting,” Niall announces.

“But no manslaughter, so I’m willing to declare it a success if you are.” Harry unbuttons his shirt piece by piece. “Also my garden’s growing.”

“Congrats, that’s sick,” Niall says, genuinely excited. “Uh, what’re you doing?”

“Celebrating our great victory.” Harry slides his shirt off his shoulders as slowly as he can.

“With a — striptease?”

“Future-Harry has a great body. You should be properly appreciative of it.” Harry starts wriggling his hips, then loses his balance and grabs the end of the bed to keep from falling down. Niall bursts out laughing.

“Don’t ever try to be sexy again,” he says. “Watching you try to be sexy gives me gas.”

“Fine,” Harry sulks. 

“Think I’m too tired for shagging, anyway.” Niall rubs his face. 

“You’re so old,” Harry says for the umpteenth time, and after making quick work of his trousers and socks, climbs in beside him. 

“Well, _yeah_.”

Harry closes his eyes. It could be tonight, he thinks. 

 

:::

 

It’s not. He wakes and checks his phone. Still 2024.

(He tries to be disappointed).

Niall’s already up and gone by the time Harry wakes. Harry finds him in the kitchen with the coffee brewing and the telly above the fridge tuned in to Australian news. “Hey,” Harry says, voice burred with sleep. He tries not to look too closely at Niall’s face, afraid of what he might find there. 

“Hey,” Niall says, bowed over his coffee. When Harry passes by, he twists around in his chair and smiles, a crooked line of his mouth that he offers up as a gift. Harry eases. Just another day then, he can play along, he knows his lines.

Second day of the party’s even lazier than the first. Niall leads the kids on a scavenger hunt that quickly morphs into everyone roaming about looking under rocks and trying to catch butterflies, when they can be bothered. They don't have nets so Niall finds some buckets. Alder, the younger of the Payne twins, cries when his sister whacks him over the head with one. Liam’s there immediately, on his knees, scooping him up.

It’s amazing to watch. Even though Harry knows this version of Liam’s got five years on him, the difference between them seems so plain. Seemed plain even in 2019, perhaps, and the roads they were choosing. “You’re a proper grownup,” Harry tells him, wandering by with a wineglass and a piece of baguette.

“Not really?” Liam says, scrunching his face. “Anyone can have kids. Kids don’t make you a grownup.”

“No, but like, you take care of them,” Harry says. “You _raise_ them.”

Liam scratches the back of his neck. “Dunno about that either. I mean, yeah, I _do_ ,” he adds quickly when Harry gives him a skeptical look. “But well, isn’t it sort of a weird expectation? Get married, have babies. Guess what I’m trying to say is — it suits me and Pez, but it don’t got to for everyone. Niall’s helped me see that.”

“Has he?” Harry asks noncommittally. 

“Families come in all sorts, y’know,” Liam says, as if reciting off someone’s powerpoint slide. He and Harry crack up at the same time at how ridiculous they sound. “But I mean it!” Liam says, turning completely earnest. “Look at Tommo. Between him, Bri, and Poppy, Freddie’s practically got two mums and a dad. But it works.”

“Yeah.” Harry watches Poppy chase Freddie around the garden, while Louis lies on a picnic blanket and laughs.

How do you do that, Harry wonders. With a kid. With anyone. How do you look at someone and carry the knowledge that for them you’re _it_. To hold another human being’s happiness in your big, clumsy hands. 

“And I wanna say, too, that I’m sorry.” Liam’s still speaking in that terribly earnest tone. Harry blinks at him.

“What’re you sorry for?”

“What we talked about before. I know I’ve not been — the greatest friend. After you and Niall, y’know.” Liam shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I figured he needed me more.”

Future-Harry needed you too, Harry doesn’t say. And it’s not in his power to forgive Liam on future-Harry’s behalf, but that’s the other thing. Future-Harry isn’t here, is he. It’s just Harry, only Harry, and Harry remembers evenings on the tour bus, those early days, and the two of them crashing petrol stations and chemists at every stop. Filling their hoodies’ pockets with sweets and eating them on the roof of the bus, even though Paul hated seeing them there. Talking of all the places they could go, the people they could be. He claps Liam on the shoulder. “You’re a good egg, Leemo,” he says, “and a magnificent beard.”

An hour later Poppy comes to him, giving Freddie a piggyback ride. “Oof, you haven't seen Louis anywhere, have you?”

Harry thinks about it. “No, but he might've gone back to the house?” Sun’s getting hotter, so it seems like a reasonable guess.

“Already checked. Ow, Freddie, don't yank on my hair,” Poppy says genially. “Well, if you see Louis, tell him me and Freddie are getting a lift to town with Nick and Fikriyya. We’re gonna get ice cream.”

Harry finds Niall and pulls him aside. “Where’s Louis?”

“How would I know?” Niall says cheerfully, well on his way to day-drunk. He’s borrowed some of Harry’s amnesia about doing up the buttons on his shirt. “I’m not his keeper.”

“I haven’t seen Zayn around either,” Harry says. “Willie says he didn’t see him go into town with Fikriyya.”

The prospect of both Louis and Zayn got off to mysterious whereabouts snaps Niall to attention. “If they ruin this weekend, I’ll savage them both,” he says.

“There, there, alpha male.” Harry puts out a hand to keep Niall from swaying into the wall, but in doing so his palm slides up Niall’s chest. Niall grins at him, hood-eyed and mischievous, and Harry feels light-headed. “We should go look for them,” he says, clearing his throat. “In case something bad’s happened.”

Nothing bad’s happened to them. Louis is sprawled out in the wine cellar, a six-pack of Niall’s beer neatly demolished. Zayn’s sitting across from him with his knees tucked to his chest. They’re arguing about Assassin’s Creed.

“How’d you even get down here?” Niall asks, and then laughs, “oopsy-daisy!” Harry catches him before he topples down the stairs.

“I have my ways,” Louis declares haughtily.

“Dude, you literally left the key in the door,” Zayn says. “From your last trip to grab more wine.”

“I did? Aw, fuck,” says Niall.

“Aw,” Louis echoes. “Is wittle Niall drunk? Can’t walk on your own without clinging to moppety Harry?”

“Clinging?” Zayn drawls. “Groping, more like.”

“Hamberto’s very gropable,” Niall says loyally, and demonstrates this. Harry yelps. 

“Are you still calling him that?” Louis says. “Cute. But you two always were cute, right up until the moment you’re not, and you’re a pain in everybody’s arse.” He brandishes his beer bottle like a spear. “Sort your shit out. Your Uncle Louis’ telling you to.”

“Uncle Louis?” Zayn shakes his head. “There’s so much wrong with that statement.” He starts patting himself down, looking for something. “Uncle Louis got a fag?” Louis nods and reaches into his pocket, but Harry cuts both of them a swift glance.

“Don’t smoke down here.”

“‘s not gonna get into the barrels,” Zayn says. Niall’s staring at him intensely, hand still placed protectively over Harry’s crotch.

“You don’t know that,” Harry says, and Louis retracts his pack of cigs. Zayn looks mournful.

“I’m just sayin’,” Louis slurs. “‘bout your shit. If the internet had to be right and one of us had to be gay for Harry, I’m glad it’s not me.”

“What the hell?” Harry turns around at the new voice and sees Liam looming at the top of the steps. “What’re you lads all doing down here?”

“Liam!” Niall shouts happily, opening his arms. “How’d you find us?”

“Zayn texted me.” Liam brandishes his phone. Zayn lifts his own mobile in lazy salute. “Is that beer?” Liam asks with keen interest.

“Got another pack stashed somewhere—” Louis gestures indiscriminately, “—over there.”

“Thank god.” Liam leaps down the steps. “No offense, Niall, but I hate wine.”

Niall scowls. He sinks to the ground and pulls Harry with him. “You’re all traitors,” he says. “I invite you here — out of the goodness of my heart, and you don’t even—” He starts slapping the air and manages to hit Harry across the cheek. “Twin Boughs shiraz is the best in the world!” Niall shouts.

“Ow,” Harry says.

“Cool it, lover boy,” says Zayn. 

But Niall’s only just starting his engine. “And what’s more,” he says, scrambling to his knees. “Look at us. _Look_ at us. When’s the last time the five of us were on the same _continent_ , not even the same fucking cellar. When did we decide it was okay to stop hating Zayn?” He glances over his shoulder. “No offense, Zayn.”

“Right,” Zayn says sardonically.

“ _I_ don’t hate Zayn,” Liam announces. “It’s been, what, nine years? Bit ridiculous, to hold a grudge that long.”

“Has it really been nine years?” Louis asks, sounding shocked. “Jesus.”

Zayn and Harry exchange a look over everyone’s heads. “We’re not even a band anymore,” Harry says. “If you think about it, in the end, we all left One Direction.”

Niall, with his head in Harry’s lap, says, “No we didn’t.”

“What,” Zayn says sharply, “you still hold a grudge then?”

“No, no, whatever.” Niall waves his hands. “Don’t mean that. Do whatever makes you happy, Zayn. I just mean — One Direction’s gone, yeah, but it’s also not. It’s in this room with us right now. We aren’t One Direction, but One Direction’ll always be us.” 

“This is us,” Harry laughs.

“Jesus, mate, how much did you have to drink?” Louis smirks. “Call the cops. Nialler’s gone maudlin.”

“There’s no cops here,” Niall says, vowels stretched out like dough. “I’ll be as maudlin as I fucking like. Harry doesn’t mind, do you?” He cranes his neck to peer at Harry.

“I don’t mind,” Harry says, smiling back.

“How did this happen?” Louis demands. “Someone answer that. Like, couple months ago Haz called me up all ‘watch me, Louis, I’m gonna get my man.’” Harry glares at him because it was nothing like that. “But I didn’t think there was a chance in hell Niall’d actually forgive him. What the hell.” He throws up his hands. “Universe has gone strange, I tell ya. Nothing makes sense anymore.”

“I’m not something to be _got_ ,” Niall complains but no one pays attention. “‘m not a piece of Christmas _ham_.”

“Universe’s always been strange,” Zayn says, eyelids sinking to half-mast. Harry can tell he’s thinking about his own encounters with its particular brand of randomness.

“But good too,” Liam says. “Right? It’s been good to us, lads?” 

“Eh, it’s been alright,” Louis says. 

Harry grabs a beer and pops the cap off. “To an alright universe,” he says. “Cheers.”

 

:::

 

“I love our friends, but y’know...” Niall says.

“Thank god they’ve gone home,” Harry interjects, and they have. Packed off to the airport on Monday morning, the whole lot of them, and the house is a dreadful mess in their wake, something Harry and Niall will be cleaning for days, not to mention what they’ve done to the grounds. 

Sari had crept out of her cottage to take a look, found a child’s shoe lying on her porch, and running into her Niall had said, “We’ll sort it out before the others get back, I promise.” In a sort of panicky voice that had made Sari smile.

But that’s a problem for later, for the remains of the day. It’s Monday morning, seeping into noon, they’ve sent everyone off, and all Harry wants is to crawl back into bed. But not for sleeping, not right away. “Still too tired?” he asks hoarsely, rubbing a thumb over Niall’s cheekbone, and Niall shakes his head and leans in to kiss him. 

“Want you in me,” Niall rasps, “like, right now.” It’s easy work to shed their clothes, to get into bed, where Niall positions Harry against the headboard and then makes Harry watch as he preps himself, two fingers heavy-shiny with lube. Harry runs his hands along Niall’s sides, feeling the shape of Niall’s ribs. 

While Niall's working, he slithers down so that Niall’s sitting on his face. He gets his mouth on Niall’s bollocks, his twitching hole. He pushes his tongue in beside Niall’s fingers, and Niall’s surprised groan rends Harry’s heart in two. Harry pries him open with his thumbs and laps at him until Niall’s trembling on his knees. “Harry,” he gasps, “get up, ‘m ready, c’mon.”

He’s got a condom ready when Harry sits again, tipped against the headboard. Niall tugs the rubber onto him with his fingers and mouth, and Harry’s hips jerk violently. Jerk again when Niall sinks onto him. Harry’s nostrils flare, pleasure wrapping a swollen fist around him and keeping him there, on that edge, while Niall starts a leisurely pace, rocking his hips so gently as to make Harry scream. Harry groans at the feel of his cock in Niall’s arse. Niall buries his face in Harry’s hair, mouthing his curls as they fuck. 

It’s in his chest, this huge ache. Harry’s got his fingers bruising Niall’s hipbones, sweat slapping their bodies together, sheets twisted beneath their heels, but he’s got no name for this ache, only that it’s feels like a slow, hot rush of blood, like hemoglobin, like white blood cells, like something that passes through your heart thick and messy, mucus wet. 

“Niall,” he manages, when he comes.

Niall drops kisses into his hair, one by one.

 

:::

 

Harry’s forgot to be careful. He wants to forgive himself for it, because no one can be on alert all the time (that’s no kind of life, that’s war), but he should have remembered to be careful about this. All of them together. He looks at the text Jeff’s sent him, with the link to the tweet, and Harry’s stomach freefalls at the number of times it’s been retweeted, picked up by media accounts. 

_They’re gonna be on you soon, H. Maybe it’s time to come home?_

The photo’s a blurry airport shot captured on someone’s phone, but he’s in it, and Niall, and they’re helping Liam and Perrie with their bags. He can see Louis and Zayn in the background, carrying coffee trays. _omg 1D reunion in Adelaide???_ is the caption. 

Thousands of replies already.

_are narry getting back together?!!!_

_Ddn’t N put a restraining order on him tho??_

_What the fuck, Zayns there too_

_is that his kid, u NEVER see pics of his kid_

_WHATS GOIN ON_

_(1/2) guys i did some research and i think niall LIVES near adelaide. wasn’t there that rumour he owns a vineyard now , well look at this one._

_(2/2)owner is niall walsh but could be niall HORAN?_

“What’s with that look on your face?” Niall asks breezily when he comes by to fetch something he’s forgot in his office. “D-Man’s stuck in traffic, his bus blew a wheel, we might need one of us to go pick him up.” 

There will always be a world in which he shows Niall, and a world where he doesn’t, but in the end both worlds lead to the same story, which is that Harry was foolish to think he could’ve stayed here as long as he did. He can see Niall’s face go blank when he shows him Jeff’s text, the tweet, and the photo. He watches Niall digest the information. Thinks of a snake swallowing a smaller animal whole.

“I guess I thought it didn’t matter.” Harry feels compelled to speak. “If we were gonna jump any day now.” The thing about being a temporary passenger is that it doesn’t feel like there are any consequences. But he thinks of Sari, of Cat, of Godfrey and the others, and the photographers that are sure to appear, and he knows that’s not true. 

“It’s my fault too,” Niall says. “Living here so quiet like this — it feels different. But none of it’s different.” He studies the phone in Harry’s hand. “Jeff’s probably got the right idea of it.” The way he says it is flat and cold, a decision made.

(“Who’s the most stubborn member of the band?” an interviewer in Brazil once asked, and Harry, sitting beside Liam on the couch, had looked straight down to the end, as did they all.

“Definitely blondie there,” he said).

Harry’s throat clenches. If he leaves, the paps might poke around Twin Boughs and bother Niall, but it won’t be — it won’t be nearly as intense as if they caught them together. He knows this too. 

“It’s probably worse the longer you stay off the radar,” Niall says. “I’m small potatoes in this future, but you,” he shrugs, “you’ve an entire career ground to a halt right now. Reckon it’s no longer a good idea to leave it hanging.”

Harry stares at him. “You promised, though,” he says. “Not to jump back without me.” He hates how childish he sounds, like a little boy afraid of the dark. 

“Yeah, well.” Niall busies himself cleaning up the cups and plates from the table where Harry’s sitting. “Seeing that photo. It’s become bigger than the two of us, innit?” He sounds like a stranger, like the Niall that sat on Harry’s dick yesterday and kissed him like he was his last tether to earth has gone on vacation, and there’s only this Niall left, a disinterested Niall, a Niall who’s got better things to do. 

And it’s not as if Harry disagrees with anything he’s saying. He knows the best thing is for him is to leave. Stay away until the gossips lose interest. Stay away until time rights itself and they’re back to 2019. But he’s waiting for a reaction from Niall that Niall doesn’t want to give. He’s holding out his hand for it, feels that he’s owed, but he’s coming up empty. Niall finishes tidying the plates and dumping them in the sink, and then he’s saying, “About D-Man, I can go give him a lift.”

“No,” Harry says coolly, “gimme the keys. I can do it.”

 

:::

 

“Hm, but if you’re going back to L.A, we got to have a party for you,” Cat says.

“Rather not with the parties,” Harry winces. “Gonna have party hangover for a while, I think.”

“Then a special lunch at least,” Cat urges. “All of us together.”

“We usually eat lunch as a group anyway,” he points out. 

“But this time with better food. With _cake_.”

“But why?” Harry’s curious. “I’ve only been here for a few months. You hardly know me.”

“That’s time enough,” Cat says. “Look. You helped us pick grapes. You filled our water bottles. You made farmers market runs for us. You trimmed Godfrey’s bangs. Together we survived the combined OCD of Sari, Iskander, and Niall, and had a good harvest.” She bops him on the head, which is quite a feat considering he has at least a foot on her. “We were soldiers in the trenches.”

She takes this proposition to Sari, who is indifferent to the effort of making a special lunch for Harry’s goodbye, but bends on the subject of cake, particularly when Cat offers to simply buy it from the grocery store. 

The cake is vanilla with buttercream icing, strawberries plopped along the rim, and in blue wriggly frosting it says BON VOYAGE, HARRY. Cat brings it out after lunch. “We have a gift for you too,” she says. “Godfrey and me made it.”

Godfrey leaps to his feet and presents it. It’s a framed photo of all the Twin Boughs staff together, except the photo was clearly taken before Harry’s arrival because he’s not in it. Instead, they’ve glued a cut-off photo of his head in the sky, where he resembles a big decapitated Mufasa looking down on everything. “Mm, lovely,” says Harry. It’s the most disturbing thing he’s ever seen.

He looks down the table at Niall, who’s picking mushrooms out of his salad. Niall’s not paying attention at all. 

But that’s just fine. Harry’s got enough to entertain him. He makes the first ceremonial cut on the cake, and then Godfrey takes over. “Can’t believe harvest’s almost over too,” he says, parceling out slices and handing Harry the biggest. “I know it feels extra short cos I was around for only half of it—” Godfrey’s the other person who’s not in the photo, “—but I had a great time. Oh hey, when are you flying out?”

Harry tips over a strawberry on his paper plate. “Tomorrow,” he says. He looks at Niall again. Niall’s chatting with Rachel. Harry turns back to Godfrey. “What about you? How’s applying to school?”

“I got in!” Godfrey says. “Starting at ANU in the fall.”

“That’s—?” Harry’s got no clue.

“Australian National University, mate.”

“That’s _fantastic_ ,” Harry says. “Congrats, you’re gonna be brilliant at uni.” He and Godfrey fistbump.

“Still have the summer free, though,” Godfrey says thoughtfully. “Might get another job. Or, if my parents can lend me some money, maybe I’ll travel.”

“Well, if you ever find yourself in L.A and need someone to show you around,” Harry says, “I’m your man. Where’s your phone? I’ll give you my number.”

“What, for real?” Godfrey looks like he wants to wee himself with excitement. 

“Yeah,” says Harry, struggling not to smile. “And if you ever ring me up, and I sound like I’m a different Harry, a Harry who doesn’t know you, just remind me that we met through Niall. I’ll know you then.”

“Ooookay,” Godfrey says. “Planning on suffering massive personality changes soon?”

“One never knows,” Harry says.

He’s halfway through his slice of cake, listening to Cat regale everyone with the story of how, when she was seventeen, she almost ended up in jail, when Mareme touches his shoulder gently. She leans over the table. “Thank you again,” she says.

“For what?” Harry asks, mouth full.

“When Ousmane was sick.”

“Oh.” He swallows the cake. “That was no problem at all.” He feels weird suddenly, wobbly, the feeling of having rubbed up against other people’s lives without meaning to. It’s not a bad feeling — just, unexpected. Mareme nods and walks back to her seat. His gaze follows her and then lands on Niall (always on Niall, he’s the needle and Niall’s the magnetic north). This time Niall’s looking back. There’s something in his eyes that he quickly folds and tucks away.

“Harry,” Niall says.

Harry leans closer. There’s D-Man, Iskander, and Sari in between them, but he swears he heard Niall say his name.

“What?” he asks.

“Never mind.” Niall clears his throat. 

“Sari.” He hears Iskander’s stage-whisper. “Sari. You wanted to say something to Mr. Harry, for both of us, before he leaves.”

“What, no I didn’t,” Sari says.

“ _Sari_.”

Sari turns sideways to Harry. “You were functionally useless while you were with us,” she says.

“Sari!”

“But you have a nice backside to look at, so that was not too bad.”

Iskander’s dying of horror. Niall’s face is — well, Harry doesn’t know what Niall’s face is, only that he bites out a startled squawk of a laugh, and stops. He looks away. A hare’s been rustling the bushes behind them, and then it runs past the door of the winery. Even after it’s gone, Niall keeps staring in its direction. Harry wonders if he’s not watching for photographers.

“Thanks, Sari,” Harry says, wrenching his attention back. “I’ll miss you too.”

There’s sprouts growing in his garden. There’s books he’s not yet finished lying on the kitchen table. There’s boxes of maps and clocks and smoking jackets he means to sort through. There’s stuff for a curry in the fridge. But now there’s no time. Cat was wrong. There was never enough time. When Harry returns to the table from helping himself to another piece of cake, Niall’s gone. Harry doesn’t see him for the rest of the day. 

 

:::

 

If Niall would rather make a clean break of it, well, Harry can too. Harry’s a door closing, a window latching. 

It’s two in the morning when Niall comes to bed, smell of booze clinging to his clothes and skin. “Harry,” he whispers, and Harry lies awake in the darkness, thinking _what, what, what_ , blood circulating behind his eyelids, in the veins of his wrists. But just like before Niall doesn’t finish the thought. His sigh’s a huge, heavy thing, a ship docking. His head hits the pillow and he’s out for the count.

 _Reckon it’s no longer a good idea to leave it hanging_.

Niall hasn’t asked when Harry’s flight is, and Niall’s not the sort to forget (Niall’s not the sort for a great many things). If Niall hasn’t asked, it means he doesn’t care to know. 

Four more sleepless hours spent with Niall snoring beside him, rolled to the edge of the mattress so that no part of them touch, and Harry’s time is up. He doesn’t need his alarm clock to tell him when. He rises from the bed, shoulders and thighs scratched from Niall’s fingernails (two days, three days old), and goes. 

 

:::

 

He hires a cab to the airport, and even then, when he’s printing out his boarding pass, he’s looking behind him, waiting for Niall to appear, wild-haired and still warm from their bed. Only a few days, he’d said last time, and said it so casually too, like it cost him nothing to wait for Harry to return. But maybe there’s no more porches left for Harry to fix, no more rooms for him to paint. 

It occurs to him, boarding the plane, that future-Harry’s not the only coward.

 

:::

 

 _Thanks_ , he texts. _I had a good time_.

 

::: 

 

This is L.A: sunspots in the corners of his eyes, pavement beneath the balls of his feet, smoke and sugar on his tongue. A time, a place, and a city that he has to learn all over again. Throwing himself full-length at it, dashing himself upon the rocks. Home and not home. A place he seldom lives in but is always returning to. His Ithaca. 

There’s no shortage of work to keep him occupied. There’s a half hour upon getting off the plane where he can only watch as invite after invite from Jeff start piling up in his calendar, his phone going clink clink clink nonstop, like gambling chips. The first week Harry travels from interview to casting call to meeting and back again, stealing naps in the car until Jeff puts a hand on his shoulder and shakes him awake. 

“Game on,” Jeff whispers, and Harry nods. Everybody’s curious about his so-called surgery, and then the photo with Niall and the rest of the band. He can practically see the lengthening of their teeth. 

He wipes his face down with a blotting sheet, and then goes in to kill. It’s not too hard anymore, not when he’s had an entire weekend of fooling his closest friends under his belt. No one’s better at being Harry Styles than he is. A slow, sleepy smile paired with a languid drawl, and it’s so damn easy, he wonders why he ever struggled with this.

Every interviewer’s been told not to ask about Niall. They all ask about Niall.

“Look,” Harry tells Jeff, “if I don’t say anything, they’ll only go after him.”

 _Niall and I are rebuilding our friendship_ , he says. _I have nothing but respect for him, and I hope we can collaborate on projects in the future_.

The invitation for the Met Gala arrives two weeks in. The exhibit is Architecture and Fashion, but Harry’s a bloke so no one much cares what he shows up in. He wants to wear a skirt (“let’s make it totally shapeless, so it can be anti-architecture, you know what I mean?”), but he’s also the face of Burberry and they nix his idea. It means repetitive fittings, whatever they decide to stuff him in, and his publicist Roanne in the fitting room with him, saying things like, “We’ll need to plan who you’ll bring as your date. What do you think about Ellie?”

“Ellie? God, no, she hates me.” He holds his hands out obediently for the couturier. 

“It would be good play for your single together,” Roanne says, her fingernails long and serpentine as she texts simultaneously on her phone. “Establish some normalcy after all your...”

“Abnormal behaviour?” Harry finishes dryly. “Fine, ask Ellie if you must.”

Ellie says no. 

“See?” Harry says, eyebrows raised. 

Roanne looks displeased. It’s Jeff who says, cautiously, “Y’know, if you wanted to take Niall—”

“What, _no_ ,” Roanne says. “It would be an uproar.”

“—I’d do my best to support you,” Jeff says, throwing Roanne a look. “It’d be easier to control the press here than in Australia, where you don’t have a team with you.”

Roanne sighs. “If you bring Niall Horan as your Met Gala date, and bring all this extra work upon our heads, you better really love him, Styles.” 

“Right, and I bet you say that to all the hetero couples too,” Harry responds coldly. “The ones who aren’t _work_.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Harry looks at a spot on the wall. “He wouldn’t come anyway. What if I ask my mum instead?”

His mum’s chuffed at the invite, so it was the right decision to make after all. Even Gemma texts him with _Good call_. When Harry sees it, he studies her message for some time, the dark blue bubble rafting her words, before setting his phone on the coffee table and going back to his guitar and laptop. He spends all night working on a new song, and the next night too, until his fingers are sore and neck’s one long crick. He stops for a glass of water from the kitchen, and then uploads what he has and texts it to Jeff.

_What do you think_

Jeff calls him as Harry’s fiddling with the bridge. “It’s very rough,” Jeff says immediately, and Harry opens his mouth to speak. Jeff beats him to it. “But I think this could be a good one.”

“It’s more notes than lyrics right now,” Harry says. Pointlessly, because Jeff knows, he’s listened to the file. But he says it anyway.

“Yeah,” Jeff says. “That’s not like you.”

“I know,” Harry says. He leans into the neck of the guitar, resting his cheek to the strings.

“You should come over for dinner tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Harry replies.

He does these things, normal things. Surfing through his L.A. friends’ places for dinner, showing up on the doorstep with a bottle of Twin Boughs and an air kiss for the hosts. Loses his favourite ring in the cushions of Glenne’s couch. Finds it again. Slips away after dinner to drift through rooms of lived-in houses that don’t belong to him. Peeks at everyone’s bookshelves. Pulls a volume of Yeats off of James’ shelves one evening and opens it up to _a terrible beauty is born_.

His boxes from Australia arrive. He anticipates his estate sale haul, but is surprised at the rest of it, stuff he didn’t even knew he was acquiring until they’re here now, in crates with Niall’s handwriting spelling out Harry’s name. A hat, a jumper, some books, gardening gloves, an old bicycle. Spindly, cheap things. It doesn’t even seem worth it.

He goes to a greenhouse the next day, and buys an armful of seeded pots. Clears off room in a sunny patch of his kitchen counter and starts to grow herbs there: chives, lemon balm, marjoram, mint, rosemary. When he cooks at home, he always makes too much for one person to eat.

He mows his own lawn. Can’t figure out how to start the lawn mower for the longest time and has to google it. He leaves a note for his gardener, afterwards, his shirt and his hands smelling like grass and turf. _Take the day off_.

Three weeks in, and Niall hasn’t replied to his text. Harry tells himself he won’t check on him, but he gives in one day and he does, pulls up all of Niall’s accounts. Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat. There’s nothing new in any of them, despite the massive amounts of people in his mentions, mostly asking about Harry. Harry considers sending Niall another text, then wonders how pathetic that would look. Niall’s probably glad to be rid of him. The sex was good, sure; Harry knows he wasn’t imagining that, and they were getting along in a way they haven’t in years. But, end of the day, Harry’s an inconvenience to Niall, in all the timelines they’ve been in. Harry’s talent is fucking things up.

He spends most of his days in meetings, in shoots. When he’s not needed, and all the staff and crew are running around him, or a makeup artist’s powdering the grease off his nose, he sits in corners and finishes reading the fourth Harry Potter. He might as well get to the end of it.

It’s a routine, and a routine stabilizes you. Dr. Sengupta agrees as much when Harry sees her. A routine saves you. Point is, Harry’s no longer sure he’ll jump back to his own time, and when he thinks of it, there’s loss like a clear windowpane inside him, five years gone that some other Harry got to live instead. He could have done so much with those five years. _Niall_ could have done so much.

He’s at Jeff’s for dinner again, unsteady on his feet after too much wine, when he texts Louis from the loo.

_What if I told you I ws a time traveler_

There’s no reply until Harry slips into bed that night, burying his face in his pillows. L.A’s cooler than usual, the breeze from the north ghosting his skin, his bare arse. His phone chimes. 

_not u too_

He digs his phone out from beneath the pillow. With shaky fingers he types, _What do you mean_

_Z already tried to pull my leg ab this YEARS ago mate_

Harry’s lungs hold the shape of his breath. _Louis i’m calling you right now. Pick up._

 

:::

 

It’s Friday afternoon, but in the Barossa Valley they’ll be only be just waking up about now, showers running in the cottages, Sari pulling out boxes of cereal and milk from the fridge, tables laden, kettle on the hob. All of the old clocks Harry’s arranged in his house, each showing a different time with their rusty gears, and this is the difference he remembers best.

His film shooting for the afternoon’s been canceled, production emergency, and everybody’s been sent home with instructions to wait. Harry’s got his headphones on, listening to the cuts of his song that his producer’s sent. He’s trying to decide how much of this new version he actually likes even as he glances at his phone every few minutes because Zayn’s texting him steady updates of the graffiti mural he and Fikriyya are painting in their basement. Every new picture’s an update: of the mural, of Fikriyya’s tolerance, of Hiba crawling through the layers of newspaper.

Harry’s in the middle of composing a careful, polite email about the song (he hates all of the cut), when his phone starts blowing up with Louis.

_ANSWER YOUR DOORBELL_

_ANSWER YOUR DOORBELL_

_GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ARSE AND ANSWER YOUR DOORBELL_

“Jesus, Lou,” Harry says, opening his front door. “I didn’t hear you. I had my headphones on.”

“I _know_ ,” Louis says sourly, breezing in. “And put on a shirt, would ya. I could’ve been anyone. I could’ve been Niall.” He pushes into the den and Harry follows. “Never mind, bet that would suit you just fine, wouldn’t it.”

Harry tries not to flinch. “What’s those bags for?”

“Brought my PS5 over,” Louis says. “Let’s shoot some zombies.”

Harry’s never been fond of video games except maybe Sims, and only then because he enjoyed decorating everyone’s virtual houses and making them get it on with each other. “Don’t you think we’re too old for this?” he asks.

“Says the twenty-five-year-old in a thirty-year-old’s body.” Louis crouches in front of Harry’s widescreen telly and starts fiddling with the HDMIs. “Stop whinging, Hazza. Killing shit will do wonders for your sexual frustration.”

“‘m not—” Harry casts his eyes to the ceiling. “Never mind. Welcome to my home, Louis, go ahead and make yourself comfortable. Want a cuppa?”

“Could do.” Louis finally locates the right cable. “Aha!”

He’s thoroughly thrashing Harry in-game when he says, without taking his eyes off the screen, “Got so many questions I could ask you.”

“Hm?” Harry’s tongue is poking between his teeth as he tries to maneuver his character around the corner to a safe hiding spot. Mostly what he’s doing is mushing the buttons and making random items equip. 

“Where do you think _our_ Niall and Harry are? If you’re—” he scrolls through his inventory, “in their bodies.”

“Think they might be having some adventures of their own,” Harry says. He imagines an endless ladder of Harry and Nialls swapping out of each other’s lives, like one of them paper cutouts where you unfold your sheet and it’s ten people holding hands at once.

“Alright.” Louis seems to digest that. “Second question. What if being a time traveler’s, like, a genetic thing? Something you can’t get rid of. What if you keep jumping around for the rest of your life? Like, uh, that movie.”

“What movie?” 

“Something something wife.”

“You mean Time Traveler’s Wife?” Harry says. “I thought that was a book. And I dunno. Zayn hasn’t. He’s only jumped the once.”

“So far,” Louis says, shooting a zombie in the head.

Harry feels queasy. Another thing he hadn’t considered. “I don’t know if I’m gonna go back,” he admits. “It’s already been way longer than Zayn spent.”

Louis squares his shoulders and hunches into his controller. His voice’s awkward when he says, “No one knows these things.” He straightens and puts the game on pause to turn around, a stray thought striking him. “But if you _do_ go back, think of the sick powers you’ll have.”

“Like what?” Harry asks doubtfully. 

“Everything, man!” Louis exclaims. “You could memorize winning lotto numbers and clean everyone else out.”

The corner of Harry’s mouth lifts. “What’d I need to win the lottery for?”

“Ugh, you’re _useless_ ,” Louis accuses. “I’m gonna tell Niall my great idea. I know he’ll listen to me. We’ll go to horse races together, it’ll be mad.” Harry’s not quick enough to hide the look on his face this time. Louis groans. “Are you two really — I _told_ you not to fuck it up with him. I gave _express instructions_. Fair enough, I thought I was talking to our Harry at the time, but I meant it for you too.”

“It was going to happen anyway,” Harry says, feeling cross. He pushes his controller to the side. “It was a fantasy life we had in Australia. Then real life intervened, is all.”

“You think this is your real life—” Louis gestures around them, “you bleedin’ time traveler?”

“It is now,” Harry says quietly. 

“Fine,” Louis says, “fine. I told Liam about your special condition, by the way. He rather thinks you’ve gone mental, but in a Liamy ‘I want the best for you’ kind of way. Poor bloke’s probably agonizing over what to text to you this very minute.”

“You know,” Harry muses, “one time I tried to write ‘Liamy’ on my phone and it kept autocorrecting to ‘loamy.’”

“Well, he’s that too,” Louis says with a raspy cackle. He unpauses the game and tosses Harry’s controller back at him. It hits Harry in the chest. 

The game starts up again. Harry manages to shoot one zombie and then get stuck in a corner. Louis springs out pew-pewing everything in sight and then reloading his gun cartridge with a loud click.

He hates himself for the need to know. “Has Niall—”

“Nope,” Louis says. “Won’t return any of our texts. Payno thinks he’s being a broody bell-end.”

Louis keeps Harry company the rest of the afternoon, even as Harry gives up on the game and lies on the couch instead, watching Louis and offering salty commentary. They order Thai takeout, and Harry’s disposable chopsticks break unevenly when he tries to split them. He makes them more tea. Louis tells him about Freddie’s latest report card. By the time Louis’ looking at his watch and saying he better bugger off, Poppy and Freddie will be wondering where he is, Harry thinks, _I can do this_. He can live this life. He can bear it.

When Louis’ gone, Harry tidies the mess they’ve made of the den and kitchen. He puts the cushions back in place, puts Louis’ leftover Thai in the fridge, and tries to get the new stains out of the carpet so his cleaners won’t be upset with him. Louis Tomlinson is a bloody tornado of a human being. 

The doorbell rings. Harry wonders what Louis’ forgotten. He yanks the door open, ready to give Louis shit, but it’s not Louis. And Harry was wrong. He can’t accept this life he’s been shoved in when he wants so much more.

“Hi,” says Niall, scrubby, sunburnt, and beautiful.

Harry finds his voice. “Let me guess. You just happened to be in the neighbourhood.”

Niall laughs nervously. “Not quite. Can I, erm, come in?” His hands are crammed in his pockets and his back’s bent in a loose slouch. 

“Okay.” Harry feels spectacularly useless. He doesn’t even know how to get out of Niall’s way as Niall steps inside. They careen into each other, and Harry’s stomach feels hot and heavy, like an oven preheating. Close up, he can see how tired Niall looks, like he’s not gotten any sleep for days. 

“D’you want some food?” 

Niall’s hands keeps fidgeting. It’s sort of mesmerizing to watch. “Actually, yeah,” Niall says. “Last thing I ate was a roll on the plane, and it was — not good.”

“That’s all they gave you to eat?” Harry’s incredulous.

“They gave me more,” Niall shrugs. “That was all I could keep down.” He trails Harry to the kitchen, and Harry has a moment of forgetfulness about how walking works. One foot in front of the other, he reminds himself, though it’s hard with Niall behind him. 

“All I’ve got is some leftover Thai,” he says, opening his fridge. “Fair warning, it’s also got Louis’ germs all over it.”

Niall cracks a smile. “Are you kidding me? There were only two decent restaurants in Nuriootpa to choose from. Thai sounds bloody amazing.”

“I remember,” Harry says. He’s astonished by how level his voice sounds, by how little he gives away. Niall, on the other hand, is buzzing with enough anxious energy to power the entire street. Harry pops the leftovers into the microwave. Niall stakes out one of the barstools by the counter. The microwave starts to hum and glow yellow through the window.

“When I was a kid,” Harry says, “I used to get these awful hunger pangs in the middle of the night. I’d creep downstairs and my mum, she always kept a few mini-pizzas in the freezer, in case she didn’t feel like cooking.” He watches the plate revolve. “I wasn’t supposed to eat them, but I’d stick one in the microwave and hope no one heard me turn it on. I’d,” he laughs a little, “hold a towel in front of the microwave cos I thought it’d muffle the sound.”

“Now look at you,” Niall says, “a proud and liberated appliance owner.” The microwave beeps and Harry uses the tips of his fingers to carry the hot takeout to him, trying not to burn himself. 

Niall eats, and Harry sits on the stool opposite. 

“How’s the vineyard?” he finally asks. This is ridiculous, he thinks. Like they’re two figures trapped in some horrible domestic comedy. 

“Good,” Niall eats, cheeks stuffed. It should be gross that Niall tends to talk with his mouth full, but it’s not. Harry does it too. He finds it wretchedly endearing. “Quiet,” Niall adds. “Now that most everybody’s gone. Just me, Sari, and Iskander left to plot the next crop of grapes. Er, your garden’s doing well. I make sure to water it every day.” He shifts on the barstool and looks pained. “Harry, I—”

“If this is to tell me that I’m great and all, but should please kindly fuck off,” Harry interrupts, “you don’t need to. I already got the message.”

“That’s not—” Niall stammers. “That’s not what I was gonna say, at all.”

“I figured not,” Harry says, biting his lip, “cos you could’ve done that in a text, not fly halfway across the world and show up like a rando on my doorstep. But, Niall, I dunno — I dunno what you _want_ from me. I’m—” he folds his arms. “I’m your friend, I’m your not-friend, I’m your fuck buddy, I’m _losing my mind_.”

Niall stops chewing. A noodle dangles from his mouth.

“What if this is as good as it ever gets?” Harry closes his eyes. “What if this is home for us?”

“We have a home, Harry,” Niall says softly. “You called it that yourself.”

“Yeah, it’s you, me, and paps climbing over the fence,” Harry retorts. “I know that it makes more sense for us not to get tangled up in each other. _I know that_.”

Niall swipes at his mouth. “But it’s too late,” he says. “We’re already tangled up in each other.” 

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Me neither,” Niall admits. “But it’s happened and I—” his breath hitches. “That’s what I came to say. Liam’s right. I’m a self-pitying idiot.” His voice gets tighter and tighter. “I shouldn’t want you this much, but I can’t be in that house for two fucking minutes without seeing something of yours—”

“What’d you mean. You shipped all my crap to me, remember?”

“—something you made,” Niall insists, “or something you mended. That entire goddamn house.” He looks Harry in the eye. “I loved it there, with you. If that was as good as it’ll ever get, then that’s — all I want.”

Oh.

Harry’s lungs burn. They were so stupid after all.

Niall came for him, in the end.

“You fucking knobhead,” Harry says. Niall winces. Harry comes around the counter and grabs Niall into a bruising kiss. He’s caught Niall off-guard, he can tell, and Niall teeters about momentarily before he moans and starts kissing Harry back, hands coming up to grab the edges of Harry’s open shirt, yanking Harry closer. Harry kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him. Niall tastes like tamarind and fish sauce.

“Harry,” Niall says, and he sounds as if he wants to cry.

“Niall.”

“ _Harry_.”

“ _Niall_.”

“We’re a pair of chirping birds, we are,” Niall says, and Harry’s laugh is a wet choke. He feels it in his throat, in his esophagus, everywhere. He stands in between Niall’s knees and kisses him again.

“I told Dr. S., before all this started, that I felt like everyone had slowed down around me while I was still moving.” Harry breathes it into Niall’s mouth, this confession. “That I was waiting for everyone to catch up.”

“Uh,” Niall says, “yeah? No idea where this is going, but carry on.” He smooths a lock of Harry’s hair over his ear.

“I think I was wrong,” Harry says, shivering. “I wasn’t waiting for everyone. I was waiting for _you_.” Wanting makes him take the gamble. “Niall,” he says, “I think you’re the love of my life.”

Niall’s mouth drops. He hides his face in his hands, and the tips of his ears turn red. “Christ almighty,” he says. “You can’t just _say_ that. That’s not something you can take back.”

Harry, daring, scared out of his mind, falling, says, “Not gonna take it back.” If Niall can come for him, Harry can meet him halfway. He thinks of how they used to circle each other on stage, waiting for an excuse to get closer. Love, he thinks, is when you never grow out of that.

He’s gently prying Niall’s fingers from his face, trying to get him to look at him properly, teasing him for being so unexpectedly shy, loud strong Irishman like him. Niall finally drops his hands and kisses Harry on the cheek, on the jaw, on the mouth. “Same,” he says shakily, and Harry can hear how much it takes for him to able to say that. Niall sounds terrified. Harry slides his fingers into Niall’s hair and starts stroking, trying to remember how to breathe.

 

:::

 

When they’re both done clawing out their hearts for each other, Harry gives Niall a tour of future-Harry’s house. “Look at all this shit of yours I apparently nicked,” Harry says in tones of great delight.

Niall, sounding more normal and less emotionally shaken to the core, hoists a basketball with his initials on it, and rolls it between his palms. “Looks like future-us are a right pair of horny kleptos.” He mimes a jump shot. Harry fears for his vintage lamps.

“They come from a noble and glorious lineage,” Harry says, and then, because he can, because there’s no one telling him not to, he pushes Niall against the wall and snogs him for a bit. Niall’s laughing in between kisses, a breathless, free-wheeling sound, but then he stops, laughs fading to dark-eyed want. He tightens his fingers around Harry’s arse, and nuzzles Harry’s cheek with his stubble.

Niall’s phone buzzes.

“Go on,” Harry says benevolently. “See who’s texted you. If it’s Louis or Liam, tell them to sod off, we’re busy.”

Niall reaches into his back pocket, which proves to be somewhat difficult when Harry’s trying to hump him into the wall. He unlocks his phone. “It’s Sari,” he says. “Gimme a sec, alright? She’s asking about a purchase order.”

“You know hearing you talk business gets me hot,” Harry says.

“I’ll be sure to whisper business words in your ear whenever I can.” Niall finishes his one-handed text, pockets his phone, and tugs at Harry’s earlobe. “Asset turnover. Contribution margin. Account-based marketing. Is any of this workin’ for you, darling?”

Harry pushes into him so Niall can feel his fattening cock along his thigh. “It’s working.” He stops for a moment, his mind flashing elsewhere. “I do hope we meet them, though. If we jump back. In our own future.”

“Hm?” Niall’s playing with his cross.

“Sari, Godfrey, and the others.”

“Same.” Niall hesitates. “I don’t really wanna bring it up, cos it kind of ruins the mood. But if we’re stuck here for good—” Harry’s nodding, whispering _I know, I think about it too_ in Niall’s ear. Niall shudders. “I’m gonna keep with Twin Boughs,” he says. “Could never sell it, not anymore. I’ve some time this winter, while Sari and Iskander go on vacation, but after that, when it’s planting season — I’ll need to go back.”

“I know.” Harry’s voice drops. “And I have to stay here, if I want to keep with future-Harry’s career.”

“But we can — we can make it work, right?” Niall says, tilting his chin up. His freckles spill like a nebula across his nose bridge, onto his cheeks.

Harry kisses him helplessly. “I want to make it work,” he says. “No question. I reckon I can do my dog and pony show for part of the year and then spend the other part with you. Or summat. We’ll figure it out,” he promises, and breathes easier when Niall nods.

“So it’s not just a torrid time travel romance then,” Niall says, smiling, cupping Harry’s face.

“Oh I see,” Harry says sadly. “You only want me for my body.”

“You know that time at Liam’s wedding,” Niall says thoughtfully. “When we were on the beach having that row. I’d have let you rip off my clothes right then and there.” His face changes into something wistful. “God, Harry, I was waiting the entire time. For you to reach out to me. To make it okay. I was waiting, and you didn’t see it.”

They both could’ve tried harder, then. Harry wonders if things would have been different if they had. But maybe he’s glad that they aren’t, because the way things are now, he gets to move Niall from the wall to the bed, gets to topple Niall into the sheets and put his mouth to all of Niall’s secret, soft spots: his armpit, his hip, the scars on his knee. Harry hopes to never stop learning Niall’s body, to make a life’s education of it. Niall groans so beautifully, so eagerly, palming Harry through his trousers and squeezing his junk.

They can’t stop kissing; to be apart for even a moment seems impossible. Niall lays Harry flat on the bed, with Harry smiling stupidly up at him. He falls onto Harry with ferocious hunger, head bent over Harry’s lap, sucking him in. Heat bends Harry’s spine, liquefies him under Niall’s rough hands. Harry’s clawing at the sheets when he comes, creaming Niall’s face. His come clings like snow to Niall’s lashes.

Harry wanks him off after, Niall a limp weight in his arms, gasping. Has one hand on Niall’s cock, the other playing with Niall’s hole, feeding him as many fingers as he can take. Niall breaks into a fresh sweat, bearing down on Harry’s hand, and Harry keeps him like that for a long, long time, kissing him sweetly until Niall makes sounds like something broken.

“Bath,” Harry says some time later, and Niall, sex-sleepy and wondrous, agrees.

For all that future-Harry must’ve paid a boatload for this house with its six bedrooms and four baths, none of the bathtubs are large enough to fit two grown men. Harry grumbles at this until Niall laughs. "You first," he says, reaching over to run the hot water. He finds a spot on the toilet, lid-down. Briefly his expression flickers.

"You okay?" Harry asks.

"Just a little sore sitting down," Niall admits, and Harry swallows.

“We could take a shower instead.”

“Nah, go on,” Niall says. “Rub-a-dub-dub. I know you love your fancy bath shit.”

Harry, like a child revealing his treasure trove, shows him the contents of his cabinets. He absently rubs a bite mark on Niall’s collarbone as Niall runs the bath and drops one of the fizzy bombs in. “Moisturizing, for your legs,” he explains. Harry grabs Niall’s hand to steady him as he climbs into the tub.

“Feel good?” Niall asks when Harry’s sinking into the warm, bubbly water. Harry sends up a splash, and Niall grins.

Niall helps Harry wash his hair. Moves from the toilet seat to the edge of the tub, and massages the shampoo in. Harry closes his eyes at the pleasure, Niall’s fingers scritching at his scalp, careful not to get any of it in Harry’s eyes.

“You like watching me,” Harry observes.

“Yeah, you in the bath, it’s like—” Niall hums. “It’s something secret. Like you’re my mistress.”

Harry snorts. “You’re such a dork.” He butts his head into Niall’s hands, and Niall gives him a good scratch behind the ear. “I’m a pretty demanding mistress, you know. Not gonna give it up to just anyone.”

“Oh yeah?” Niall leers. “That’s not what I hear.”

“I’ve conditions,” Harry says. “Need to be well-shagged, for one.”

Niall ducks his head. “Haven’t had any complaints yet.”

“But wait, there’s more,” Harry says. “I only go for musicians.”

“I think I’ve a song or two left in me.” Niall starts sculpting Harry’s soapy hair into some kind of horrendous updo. 

“And,” Harry says imperiously, “you had to have been in a band with me since we were sixteen. I’m absolutely firm on that one. No exceptions.”

Niall chuckles. “Guess that narrows your choice down to four blokes.” He’s definitely giving Harry devil horns, the bastard. “Two of them are taken, and Louis’ a terror,” he continues, “so.”

“Good point. I’ll settle for being your mistress, I suppose,” Harry says, sliding deeper into the water. Flirting with Niall makes him happy down to his toes. “You’ll do.”

“Many thanks,” Niall replies, and Harry realizes it’s been at least fifteen minutes since he’s last kissed Niall’s freckles, which will _not_ do. He winds his arms around Niall’s neck, pulls him down, and smiles into his mouth.

The sky’s beginning to darken, indigo-soaked, by the time they fall into bed again. Niall’s voice is a fucked-out rumble when he traces Harry’s tattoos. “I still can’t figure out why we jumped. What was the point of any of this?”

Harry thinks of a time before he knew that there could be space for Niall in his life, before he knew that Niall's forgiveness wasn't something to be earned but something you asked for. He'd been spooling out his hours building empires with no doors, waiting for something to change, slowly coming undone. Maybe that was a good enough a reason as any. Or maybe it’s something else.

“I’ve been thinking,” Harry says. “Could be, it wasn’t us that triggered it. Or, not just.”

“No?” Niall kisses Harry’s moth, and Harry squirms because he’s ticklish.

“Maybe it was future-us that did something too,” he laughs. “Maybe future-Harry made a birthday wish while blowing out candles, who knows.”

“Strange little man, that future-Harry.”

“As if future-Niall’s any better,” Harry shoots back. 

“If you think about it,” Niall says, tap-dancing his fingers across Harry’s belly, “we’re the children of divorce.”

“Wait,” Harry blurts, eeling out of Niall’s grasp. Niall blinks in confusion, _where’re you going_ clearly forming on his lips, but Harry fetches his phone and slides back into bed. “Need one more photo.” He holds his phone above their heads and takes a picture of the two of them, Niall turning his face to nuzzle Harry’s cheek. They’re smiling.

Harry saves it to his photoroll, a gift.

 

:::

 

He sleeps.

He wakes.

He’s in bed alone. Morning’s striping light across his duvet, and there’s no Niall to be seen. That’s the first thing he notices, the absence of Niall’s warmth, Niall’s big spoon heating Harry’s backside. Then he opens his eyes more fully against the blue-grey light and takes in the rest of it slowly: the room that is not the room he went to sleep in.

His hand trembles as he checks his phone on the nightstand. 

He sees the date. He closes his eyes. For a moment that’s all he does, lying there, breathing in and out. He’s had dreams about this before; he doesn’t trust so easily. But time passes, and his phone dings with a new text.

 _2019 ? !_ says Niall.

Another ding, a few seconds later, and Harry studies the photo of twenty-five-year-old Niall holding up the day’s newspaper. Does Niall even read the newspaper, he wonders faintly, and then smiles at the image of Niall rushing out the door and buying one at the corner shop. It seems terribly old-fashioned and so, so Niall. 

Harry gets out of bed. He walks slowly to the washroom and looks at his face in the mirror, touches it, tests it. He takes a shower and changes into his favourite houserobe (his very favourite, silky and flowery, it wasn’t anywhere to be found in future-Harry’s wardrobe). When he looks at his phone again there’s ten new texts from Niall, all some variation on _i’m comin over rite now ! !_

 _Yes!!_ Harry texts back. He’s not sure he’s ever purposefully used an exclamation mark before, he’s so allergic to them, but looking out the window at the fig trees in his backyard, now’s definitely the time to start. _When’s your flight?_

_flight ?_

Niall picks up on the first ring. Harry’s mouth dries of spit. He wants to say — everything. What he says is, “Yeah, flight. You know, airplanes? They’re these big metal birds that transport people in the sky?”

“What the fuck?” Niall’s laughing. “Why would I need a plane?”

“From Australia—”

“Harry, I’m in _L.A._ In 2019, I live in _L.A_.” And Harry colours because oh yeah, the newspaper Niall held up was the L.A Times; in his mind lately he and Niall are always countries and seas apart. But he remembers, now, going to Niall’s house when he first woke in 2024, so of course Niall lives here, of course that’s where he found himself this morning. Harry coughs. It seems even stupider now, when they were always so close, that they never did this before. 

“I’ll be at yours in twenty minutes,” Niall says, and hangs up.

Harry wanders his house in a daze. He touches everything. A lot of it’s out of place, like someone else has been living here in his absence. He thinks of cities, and vineyards, and mushrooms growing in cellars. He thinks of legal papers in drawers and beds with well-mussed sheets. He thinks of navigating backwater roads in a pickup truck with the windows open and trees laying down their arms all around him. He thinks of a garden, unfurling.

Niall’s forty minutes coming, and then he’s grinning on Harry’s doorstep, his face half-shy and amazed. He’s not wearing his glasses, and Harry remembers with a jolt that he doesn’t need them, not yet. It’s the Niall that Harry remembers from Liam’s wedding, except pink-faced and slightly breathless, mouth twitching with a barely suppressed smile. They stare at each other, dumbfounded. Harry’s pulse sputters in his wrists like a lightbulb.

Niall’s the first to speak. He lifts the paper bag he’s carrying. “I brought breakfast burritos. ‘m starving.”

“Let me get this straight,” Harry enunciates. “We time traveled five years in the future, thought we might never come back, then _did_ come back, and in the face of this — this scientific _miracle_ , your first thought upon getting to seeing me was stopping on a detour to _Chipotle?_ ” He shakes his head. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” Niall says, marveling. He keeps on staring even after Harry lets him inside and scrounges up plates for their burritos. “I missed your hair longer like this.”

Harry flushes.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Niall says, leaning forward on his elbows. “Future-you was as fit as fuck. Like, crank it up to _here_.” Harry scowls because hello, now-him is plenty fit, and Niall better appreciate it because that’s all he’s going to get. “But,” says Niall, softly, “I like this too.”

“Trying to grow it out again,” Harry says, tugging it self-consciously.

“A cycle, right?” Niall’s eyes are bright. “Precipitation, condensation, whatsit, whatsit.”

“Exactly,” says Harry, and kisses him. 

It’s the first morning of all their mornings together. They eat their burritos. Niall tries to make scrambled eggs. Harry comes up behind him, wraps his arms around Niall’s chest, and watches. Niall burns the eggs. They scrape the mess into the rubbish bin. They take a walk around the neighbourhood and Harry points out the places where he jogs. They climb a hill and watch the to-and-fro heave of L.A. traffic. They go back to the house. They google Twin Boughs and plan a trip. They talk about music.

“What do we do now?” Harry asks, heart in his mouth, histories in the whorls of his fingers. He means in the afternoon. He means all of it.

Niall takes his hand. “Anything we damn well want.”

 

:::

 

It turns out, Niall’s right.  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
